• ' 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


- 

'  '  ffr. 


^ 


7'<S 


SCHOOL 

[COMMUNITY; 

LIBRARY 


SELECTED   LYRICAL   POEMS 


OF 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


INCLUDING 
HIS  FIRST  VOLUME 

LAUS    VENERIS 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  &   BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

MCMVI 


Copyright,  1904,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rifAts  reserved. 

Published  September,  1906. 


TO 
MY  FRIEND 

EDWARD  BURNE  JONES 

THESE  POEMS 

ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  AND  ADMIRINGLY 
DEDICATED 


PUBLISHERS'    NOTE 

In  this  volume  the  poems  included  between  pages 
315  and  the  end  have  been  added  to  the  original 
group  which  the  poet  dedicated  to  his  friend  Ed- 
ward Burne  Jones. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

A  BALLAD  OF  LIFE i 

A  BALLAD  OF  DEATH 5 

LAUS  VENERIS 13 

PHAEDRA 31 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 39 

LES  NOYADES 54 

A  LEAVE-TAKING 58 

ITYLUS 60 

ANACTORIA 63 

HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 74 

ILICET 82 

HERMAPHRODITUS 88 

FRAGOLETTA 91 

RONDEL 94 

SATIA  TE  SANGUINE 95 

A  LITANY 98 

A  LAMENTATION 104 

ANIMA  ANCEP.S 109 

IN  THE  ORCHARD in 

A  MATCH 114 

FAUSTINE 116 

A  CAMEO 123 

v 


CONTENTS 

PARR 

SONG  BEFORE  DEATH 124 

Rococo 125 

STAGE  LOVE 128 

THE  LEPER 129 

A  BALLAD  OF  BURDENS 136 

RONDEL .  139 

BEFORE  THE  MIRROR .  140 

EROTION .  143 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  .     .          .  145 

A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER.     1852    ...          .     .  148 

A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  REVOLUTION.     1860    ....  151 

To  VICTOR  HUGO 155 

BEFORE  DAWN 163 

DOLORES 166 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 183 

HESPERIA 187 

LOVE  AT  SEA 193 

APRIL 195 

BEFORE  PARTING 198 

THE  SUNDEW 200 

FELISE 202 

AN  INTERLUDE 213 

HENDECASYLLABICS 216 

SAPPHICS 218 

AT  ELEUSIS 222 

AUGUST 230 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 233 

THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 236 

ST.  DOROTHY 253 

THE  Two  DREAMS 269 

AHOLIBAH 284 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LOVE  AND  SLEEP 290 

MADONNA  MIA 291 

THE  KING'S  DAUGHTER 294 

AFTER  DEATH 297 

MAY  JANET 300 

THE  BLOODY  SON 302 

THE  SEA-SWALLOWS 306 

THE  YEAR  OP  LOVE 309 

DEDICATION 311 

COR  CORDIUM        ....          315 

SESTINA 316 

SONG 318 

CHILD'S  SONG '319 

CRADLE  SONGS      320 

THREE  WEEKS  OLD 325 

NELL  GWYN 326 

LOVE  AND  SCORN 327 

CLEAR  THE  WAY! 329 

To  A  CAT 331 

AN  OLD  SAYING 334 

A  CHANNEL  PASSAGE 335 

AT  PARTING 341 


SELECTED   LYRICAL  POEMS 


A   BALLAD  OF  LIFE 

I  FOUND  in  dreams  a  place  of  wind  and  flowers, 
Full  of  sweet  trees  and  colour  of  glad  grass, 
In  midst  whereof  there  was 

A  lady  clothed  like  summer  with  sweet  hours. 

Her  beauty,  fervent  as  a  fiery  moon, 
Made  my  blood  burn  and  swoon 
Like  a  flame  rained  upon. 

Sorrow  had  filled  her  shaken  eyelids'  blue, 

And  her  mouth's  sad  red  heavy  rose  all  through 
Seemed  sad  with  glad  things  gone. 


She  held  a  little  cithern  by  the  strings, 

Shaped  heartwise,  strung  with  subtle-coloured  hair 
Of  some  dead  lute-player 
That  in  dead  years  had  done  delicious  things. 
The  seven  strings  were  named  accordingly; 
The  first  string  charity, 

The  second  tenderness, 

The  rest  were  pleasure,  sorrow,  sleep,  and  sin, 
And  loving-kindness,  that  is  pity's  kin 
And  is  most  pitiless. 
i 


A  BALLAD   OF  LIFE 

There  were  three  men  with  her,  each  garmented 
With  gold  and  shod  with  gold  upon  the  feet; 
And  with  plucked  ears  of  wheat 

The  first  man's  hair  was  wound  upon  his  head: 

His  face  was  red,  and  his  mouth  curled  and  sad; 
All  his  gold  garment  had 
Pale  stains  of  dust  and  rust. 

A  riven  hood  was  pulled  across  his  eyes; 

The  token  of  him  being  upon  this  wise 
Made  for  a  sign  of  Lust. 

The  next  was  Shame,  with  hollow  heavy  face 
Coloured  like  green  wood  when  flame  kindles  it. 
He  hath  such  feeble  feet 

They  may  not  well  endure  in  any  place. 

His  face  was  full  of  grey  old  miseries, 
And  all  his  blood's  increase 
Was  even  increase  of  pain. 

The  last  was  Fear,  that  is  akin  to  Death; 

He  is  Shame's  friend,  and  always  as  Shame  saith 
Fear  answers  him  again. 

My  soul  said  in  me:  This  is  marvellous, 

Seeing  the  air's  face  is  not  so  delicate 

Nor  the  sun's  grace  so  great, 
If  sin  and  she  be  kin  or  amorous. 
And  seeing  where  maidens  served  her  on  their  knees, 

I  bade  one  crave  of  these 

To  know  the  cause  thereof. 
Then  Fear  said:  I  am  Pity  that  was  dead. 
And  Shame  said:  I  am  Sorrow  comforted. 

And  Lust  said:  I  am  Love. 


A  BALLAD  OF  LIFE 

Thereat  her  hands  began  a  lute-playing 

And  her  sweet  mouth  a  song  in  a  strange  tongue ; 
And  all  the  while  she  sung 

There  was  no  sound  but  long  tears  following 

Long  tears  upon  men's  faces,  waxen  white 
With  extreme  sad  delight. 

But  those  three  following  men 

Became  as  men  raised  up  among  the  dead; 

Great  glad  mouths  open  and  fair  cheeks  made  red 
With  child's  blood  come  again. 

Then  I  said:  Now  assuredly  I  see 
My  lady  is  perfect,  and  transfigureth 
All  sin  and  sorrow  and  death, 
Making  them  fair  as  her  own  eyelids  be, 
Or  lips  wherein  my  whole  soul's  life  abides; 
Or  as  her  sweet  white  sides 

And  bosom  carved  to  kiss. 
Now  therefore,  if  her  pity  further  me, 
Doubtless  for  her  sake  all  my  days  shall  be 
As  righteous  as  she  is. 

Forth,  ballad,  and  take  roses  in  both  arms, 

Even  till  the  top  rose  touch  thee  in  the  throat 
Where  the  least  thornprick  harms; 

And  girdled  in  thy  golden  singing-coat, 
Come  thou  before  my  lady  and  say  this; 
Borgia,  thy  gold  hair's  colour  burns  in  me, 
Thy  mouth  makes  beat  my  blood  in  feverish 

rhymes ; 

Therefore  so  many  as  these  roses  be, 
Kiss  me  so  many  times. 
3 


A  BALLAD  OF  LIFE 

Then  it  may  be,  seeing  how  sweet  she  is, 
That  she  will  stoop  herself  none  otherwise 

Than  a  blown  vine-branch  doth, 
And  kiss  thee  with  soft  laughter  on  thine  eyes, 

Ballad,  and  on  thy  mouth. 


A   BALLAD  OF  DEATH 


KNEEL  down,  fair  Love,  and  fill  thyself  with  tears, 

Girdle  thyself  with  sighing  for  a  girth 

Upon  the  sides  of  mirth, 

Cover  thy  lips  and  eyelids,  let  thine  ears 

Be  filled  with  rumour  of  people  sorrowing; 

Make  thee  soft  raiment  out  of  woven  sighs 

Upon  the  flesh  to  cleave, 

Set  pains  therein  and  many  a  grievous  thing, 

And  many  sorrows  after  each  his  wise 

For  armlet  and  for  gorget  and  for  sleeve. 

O  Love's  lute  heard  about  the  lands  of  death, 
Left  hanged  upon  the  trees  that  were  therein; 
O  Love  and  Time  and  Sin, 

Three  singing  mouths  that  mourn  now  underbreath, 
Three  lovers,  each  one  evil  spoken  of; 
O  smitten  lips  wherethrough  this  voice  of  mine 
Came  softer  with  her  praise; 
Abide  a  little  for  our  lady's  love. 
The  kisses  of  her  mouth  were  more  than  wine, 
And  more  than  peace  the  passage  of  her  days. 

5 


A  BALLAD   OF  DEATH 

O  Love,  them  knowest  if  she  were  good  to  see. 

O  Time,  thou  shalt  not  find  in  any  land 

Till,  cast  out  of  thine  hand, 

The  sunlight  and  the  moonlight  fail  from  thee, 

Another  woman  fashioned  like  as  this. 

O  Sin,  thou  knowest  that  all  thy  shame  in  her 

Was  made  a  goodly  thing; 

Yea,  she  caught  Shame  and  shamed  him  with  her  kiss, 

With  her  fair  kiss,  and  lips  much  lovelier 

Than  lips  of  amorous  roses  in  late  spring. 

By  night  there  stood  over  against  my  bed 

Queen  Venus  with  a  hood  striped  gold  and  black, 

Both  sides  drawn  fully  back 

From  brows  wherein  the  sad  blood  failed  of  red, 

And  temples  drained  of  purple  and  full  of  death. 

Her  curled  hair  had  the  wave  of  sea-water 

And  the  sea's  gold  in  it. 

Her  eyes  were  as  a  dove's  that  sickeneth. 

Strewn  dust  of  gold  she  had  shed  over  her, 

And  pearl  and  purple  and  amber  on  her  feet. 

Upon  her  raiment  of  dyed  sendaline 
Were  painted  all  the  secret  ways  of  love 
And  covered  things  thereof, 

That  hold  delight  as  grape-flowers  hold  their  wine; 
Red  mouths  of  maidens  and  red  feet  of  doves, 
And  brides  that  kept  within  the  bride-chamber 
Their  garment  of  soft  shame, 
And  weeping  faces  of  the  wearied  loves 
That  swoon  in  sleep  and  awake  wearier, 
With  heat  of  lips  and  hair  shed  out  like  flame. 

6 


A  BALLAD   OF  DEATH 

The  tears  that  through  her  eyelids  fell  on  me 

Made  mine  own  bitter  where  they  ran  between 

As  blood  had  fallen  therein, 

She  saying:  Arise,  lift  up  thine  eyes  and  see 

If  any  glad  thing  be  or  any  good 

Now  the  best  thing  is  taken  forth  of  us; 

Even  she  to  whom  all  praise 

Was  as  one  flower  in  a  great  multitude, 

One  glorious  flower  of  many  and  glorious, 

One  day  found  gracious  among  many  days: 

Even  she  whose  handmaiden  was  Love — to  whom 

At  kissing  times  across  her  stateliest  bed 

Kings  bowed  themselves  and  shed 

Pale  wine,  and  honey  with  the  honeycomb, 

And  spikenard  bruised  for  a  burnt-offering; 

Even  she  between  whose  lips  the  kiss  became 

As  fire  and  frankincense; 

Whose  hair  was  as  gold  raiment  on  a  king, 

Whose  eyes  were  as  the  morning  purged  with  flame, 

Whose  eyelids  as  sweet  savour  issuing  thence. 

Then  I  beheld,  and  lo  on  the  other  side 
My  lady's  likeness  crowned  and  robed  and  dead. 
Sweet  still,  but  now  not  red, 

Was  the  shut  mouth  whereby  men  lived  and  died. 
And  sweet,  but  emptied  of  the  blood's  blue  shade, 
The  great  curled  eyelids  that  withheld  her  eyes. 
And  sweet,  but  like  spoilt  gold, 
The  weight  of  colour  in  her  tresses  weighed. 
And  sweet,  but  as  a  vesture  with  new  dyes, 
The  body  that  was  clothed  with  love  of  old. 

7 


A  BALLAD   OF  DEATH 

Ah!  that  my  tears  filled  all  her  woven  hair 

And  all  the  hollow  bosom  of  her  gown — 

Ah!  that  my  tears  ran  down 

Even  to  the  place  where  many  kisses  were, 

Even  where  her  parted  breast-flowers  have  place, 

Even  where  they  are  cloven  apart — who  knows  not 

this? 

Ah!  the  flowers  cleave  apart 
And  their  sweet  fills  the  tender  interspace; 
Ah!  the  leaves  grown  thereof  were  things  to  kiss 
Ere  their  fine  gold  was  tarnished  at  the  heart. 

Ah!  in  the  days  when  God  did  good  to  me, 

Each  part  about  her  was  a  righteous  thing; 

Her  mouth  an  almsgiving, 

The  glory  of  her  garments  charity, 

The  beauty  of  her  bosom  a  good  deed, 

In  the  good  days  when  God  kept  sight  of  us; 

Love  lay  upon  her  eyes, 

And  on  that  hair  whereof  the  world  takes  heed; 

And  all  her  body  was  more  virtuous 

Than  souls  of  women  fashioned  otherwise. 

Now,  ballad,  gather  poppies  in  thine  hands 
And  sheaves  of  brier  and  many  rusted  sheaves 
Rain-rotten  in  rank  lands, 
Waste  marigold  and  late  unhappy  leaves 
And  grass  that  fades  ere  any  of  it  be  mown; 
And  when  thy  bosom  is  filled  full  thereof 
Seek  out  Death's  face  ere  the  light  altereth, 
And  say  "My  master  that  was  thrall  to  Love 
Is  become  thrall  to  Death." 

8 


A  BALLAD   OF   DEATH 

Bow  down  before  him,  ballad,  sigh  and  groan, 

But  make  no  sojourn  in  thy  outgoing; 

For  haply  it  may  be 

That  when  thy  feet  return  at  evening 

Death  shall  come  in  with  thee. 


LAUS    VENERIS 


Lors  dit  en  plourant;  Helas  trop  malheureux  homme  et 
tnauldict  pescheur,  oncques  ne  verrai-je  clemence  et  mis6ri- 
corde  de  Dieu.  Ores  m'en  irai-je  d'icy  et  me  cacherai  dedans 
le  mont  Morsel,  en  requerant  de  favetir  et  d'amoureuse  merci 
ma  doulce  dame  Venus ,  car  pour  son  amour  serai-je  bien  a 
tout  jamais  damne  en  enfer.  Voicy  la  fin  de  tous  mes 
faicts  d'armes  et  de  toutes  mes  belles  chansons.  Helas, 
trop  belle  estoyt  la  face  de  ma  dame  et  ses  yeulx,  et 
en  mauvais  jour  je  vis  ces  chouses-la.  Lors  s'en  alia 
tout  en  gemissant  et  se  retourna  chez  elle,  et  la  vescut 
tristement  en  grand  amour  pres  de  sa  dame.  Puis  apres 
advint  que  le  pape  vit  un  jour  esclater  sur  son  baston  force 
belles  fleurs  rouges  et  blanches  et  maints  boutons  de 
feuilles,  et  ainsi  vit-il  reverdir  toute  1'escorce.  Ce  dont  il 
cut  grande  crainte  et  moult  s'en  esmut,  et  grande  pitie 
lui  prit  de  ce  chevalier  qui  s'en  estoyt  departi  sans  espoir 
comme  un  homme  miserable  et  damne\  Doncques  envoya 
force  messaigers  devers  luy  pour  le  ramener,  disant  qu'il 
aurait  de  Dieu  grace  et  bonne  absolution  de  son  grand 
pesch6  d'amour.  Mais  oncques  plus  ne  le  virent;  car 
toujours  demeura  ce  pauvre  chevalier  aupres  de  Venus 
la  haulte  et  forte  deesse  es  flancs  de  la  montagne  amoureuse. 
Livre  des  grandes  merveilles  d'amour,  escript  en  latin 
et  en  franfoys  par  Maistre  Antoine  Gaget.  1530. 


LAUS  VENERIS 

ASLEEP  or  waking  is  it  ?  for  her  neck, 
Kissed  over  close,  wears  yet  a  purple  speck 

Wherein  the  pained  blood  falters  and  goes  out; 
Soft,  and  stung  softly — fairer  for  a  fleck. 

But  though  my  lips  shut  sucking  on  the  place, 
There  is  no  vein  at  work  upon  her  face; 
Her  eyelids  are  so  peaceable,  no  doubt 
Deep  sleep  has  warmed  her  blood  through  all  its 
ways. 

Lo,  this  is  she  that  was  the  world's  delight; 
The  old  grey  years  were  parcels  of  her  might; 
The  strewings  of  the  ways  wherein  she  trod 
Were  the  twain  seasons  of  the  day  and  night. 

Lo,  she  was  thus  when  her  clear  limbs  enticed 
All  lips  that  now  grow  sad  with  kissing  Christ, 

Stained  with  blood  fallen  from  the  feet  of  God, 
The  feet  and  hands  whereat  our  souls  were  priced. 

Alas,  Lord,  surely  thou  art  great  and  fair. 
But  lo  her  wonderfully  woven  hair! 

And  thou  didst  heal  us  with  thy  piteous  kiss; 
But  see  now,  Lord;  her  mouth  is  lovelier. 


LAUS  VENERIS 

She  is  right  fair ;  what  hath  she  done  to  thee  ? 
Nay,  fair  Lord  Christ,  lift  up  thine  eyes  and  see; 

Had  now  thy  mother  such  a  lip — like  this  ? 
Thou  knowest  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is  to  me. 

Inside  the  Horsel  here  the  air  is  hot; 
Right  little  peace  one  hath  for  it,  God  wot; 
The  scented  dusty  daylight  burns  the  air, 
And  my  heart  chokes  me  till  I  hear  it  not. 

Behold,  my  Venus,  my  soul's  body,  lies 
With  my  love  laid  upon  her  garment-wise, 

Feeling  my  love  in  all  her  limbs  and  hair 
And  shed  between  her  eyelids  through  her  eyes. 

She  holds  my  heart  in  her  sweet  open  hands 
Hanging  asleep;  hard  by  her  head  there  stands, 
Crowned  with  gilt  thorns  and  clothed  with  flesh 

like  fire, 

Love,   wan    as    foam    blown    up    the    salt    burnt 
sands — 

Hot  as  the  brackish  waifs  of  yellow  spume 
That  shift  and  steam — loose  clots  of  arid  fume 
From  the  sea's  panting  mouth  of  dry  desire; 
There  stands  he,  like  one  labouring  at  a  loom. 

The  warp  holds  fast  across;  and  every  thread 
That  makes  the  woof  up  has  dry  specks  of  red ; 
Always  the  shuttle  cleaves  clean   through,  and 

he 

Weaves  with  the  hair  of  many  a  ruined  head. 

M 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Love  is  not  glad  nor  sorry,  as  I  deem; 
Labouring  he  dreams,  and  labours  in  the  dream, 

Till  when  the  spool  is  finished,  lo  I  see 
His  web,  reeled  off,  curls  and  goes  out  like  steam. 

Night  falls  like  fire;  the  heavy  lights  run  low, 
And  as  they  drop,  my  blood  and  body  so 

Shake  as  the  flame  shakes,  full  of  days  and  hours 
That  sleep  not  neither  weep  they  as  they  go. 

Ah  yet  would  God  this  flesh  of  mine  might  be 
Where  air  might  wash  and  long  leaves  cover  me, 

Where  tides  of  grass  break  into  foam  of  flowers, 
Or  where  the  wind's  feet  shine  along  the  sea. 

Ah  yet  would  God  that  stems  and  roots  were  bred 
Out  of  my  weary  body  and  my  head, 

That  sleep  were  sealed  upon  me  with  a  seal, 
And  I  were  as  the  least  of  all  his  dead. 

Would  God  my  blood  were  dew  to  feed  the  grass, 
Mine  ears  made  deaf  and  mine  eyes  blind  as  glass, 

My  body  broken  as  a  turning  wheel, 
And  my  mouth  stricken  ere  it  saith  Alas! 

Ah  God,  that  love  were  as  a  flower  or  flame, 
That  life  were  as  the  naming  of  a  name, 

That  death  were  not  more  pitiful  than  desire, 
That  these  things  were  not  one  thing  and  the  same! 

Behold  now,  surely  somewhere  there  is  death: 
For  each  man  hath  some  space  of  years,  he  saith, 


LAUS  VENERIS 

A  little  space  of  time  ere  time  expire, 
A  little  day,  a  little  way  of  breath. 

And  lo,  between  the  sundawn  and  the  sun, 

His  day's  work  and  his  night's  work  are  undone; 

And  lo,  between  the  nightfall  and  the  light, 
He  is  not,  and  none  knoweth  of  such  an  one. 

Ah  God,  that  I  were  as  all  souls  that  be, 
As  any  herb  or  leaf  of  any  tree, 

As  men  that  toil  through  hours  of  labouring  night, 
As  bones  of  men  under  the  deep  sharp  sea. 

Outside  it  must  be  winter  among  men; 
For  at  the  gold  bars  of  the  gates  again 

I  heard  all  night  and  all  the  hours  of  it 
The  wind's  wet  wings  and  fingers  drip  with  rain. 

Knights  gather,  riding  sharp  for  cold;  I  know 
The  ways  and  woods  are  strangled  with  the  snow; 

And  with  short  song  the  maidens  spin  and  sit 
Until  Christ's  birthnight,  lily-like,  arow. 

The  scent  and  shadow  shed  about  me  make 
The  very  soul  in  all  my  senses  ache; 

The  hot  hard  night  is  fed  upon  my  breath 
And  sleep  beholds  me  from  afar  awake. 

Alas,  but  surely  where  the  hills  grow  deep, 
Or  where  the  wild  ways  of  the  sea  are  steep, 

Or  in  strange  places  somewhere  there  is  death, 
And  on  death's  face  the  scattered  hair  of  sleep. 

16 


LAUS  VENERIS 

There  lover-like  with  lips  and  limbs  that  meet 
They  lie,  they  pluck  sweet  fruit  of  life  and  eat; 

But  me  the  hot  and  hungry  days  devour, 
And  in  my  mouth  no  fruit  of  theirs  is  sweet. 

No  fruit  of  theirs,  but  fruit  of  my  desire, 

For  her  love's  sake  whose  lips  through  mine  respire; 

Her  eyelids  on  her  eyes  like  flower  on  flower, 
Mine  eyelids  on  mine  eyes  like  fire  on  fire. 

So  lie  we,  not  as  sleep  that  lies  by  death, 
With  heavy  kisses  and  with  happy  breath; 

Not  as  man  lies  by  woman,  when  the  bride 
Laughs  low  for  love's  sake  and  the  words  he  saith. 

For  she  lies,  laughing  low  with  love;  she  lies 
And  turns  his  kisses  on  her  lips  to  sighs, 

To  sighing  sound  of  lips  unsatisfied, 
And  the  sweet  tears  are  tender  with  her  eyes. 

Ah,  not  as  they,  but  as  the  souls  that  were 
Slain  in  the  old  time,  having  found  her  fair; 

Who,  sleeping  with  her  lips  upon  their  eyes, 
Heard  sudden  serpents  hiss  across  her  hair. 

Their  blood  runs  round  the  roots  of  time  like  rain: 
She  casts  them  forth  and  gathers  them  again; 

With  nerve  and  bone  she  weaves  and  multiplies 
Exceeding  pleasure  out  of  extreme  pain. 

Her  little  chambers  drip  with  flower-like  red, 
Her  girdles,  and  the  chaplets  of  her  head, 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Her  armlets  and  her  anklets;  with  her  feet 
She  tramples  all  that  winepress  of  the  dead. 

Her  gateways  smoke  with  fume  of  flowers  and  fires, 
With  loves  burnt  out  and  unassuaged  desires; 

Between  her  lips  the  stream  of  them  is  sweet, 
The  languor  in  her  ears  of  many  lyres. 

Her  beds  are  full  of  perfume  and  sad  sound, 

Her  doors  are  made  with  music,  and  barred  round 

With  sighing  and  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 
With  tears  whereby  strong  souls  of  men  are  bound. 

There  is  the  knight  Adonis  that  was  slain; 

With  flesh  and  blood  she  chains  him  for  a  chain; 

The  body  and  the  spirit  in  her  ears 
Cry,  for  her  lips  divide  him  vein  by  vein. 

Yea,  all  she  slayeth;  yea,  every  man  save  me; 
Me,  love,  thy  lover  that  must  cleave  to  thee 

Till  the  ending  of  the  days  and  ways  of  earth, 
The  shaking  of  the  sources  of  the  sea. 

Me,  most  forsaken  of  all  souls  that  fell; 
Me,  satiated  with  things  insatiable; 

Me,  for  whose  sake  the  extreme  hell  makes  mirth 
Yea,  laughter  kindles  at  the  heart  of  hell. 

Alas  thy  beauty!  for  thy  mouth's  sweet  sake 
My  soul  is  bitter  to  me,  my  limbs  quake 

As  water,  as  the  flesh  of  men  that  weep, 
As  their  heart's  vein  whose  heart  goes  nigh  to  break, 

18 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Ah  God,  that  sleep  with  flower-sweet  finger-tips 
Would  crush  the  fruit  of  death  upon  my  lips; 
Ah  God,  that  death  would  tread  the  grapes,  of 

sleep 
And  wring  their  juice  upon  me  as  it  drips. 

There  is  no  change  of  cheer  for  many  days, 

But  change  of  chimes  high  up  in  the  air,  that  sways 

Rung  by  the  running  fingers  of  the  wind; 
And  singing  sorrows  heard  on  hidden  ways. 

Day  smiteth  day  in  twain,  night  sundereth  night, 
And  on  mine  eyes  the  dark  sits  as  the  light; 

Yea,   Lord,  thou  knowest   I   know  not,   having 

sinned, 
If  heaven  be  clean  or  unclean  in  thy  sight. 

Yea,  as  if  earth  were  sprinkled  over  me, 

Such  chafed  harsh  earth  as  chokes  a  sandy  sea, 

Each  pore  doth  yearn,  and  the  dried  blood  thereof 
Gasps  by  sick  fits,  my  heart  swims  heavily, 

There  is  a  feverish  famine  in  my  veins; 
Below  her  bosom,  where  a  crushed  grape  stains 
The  white  and  blue,  there  my  lips  caught  and 

clove 
An  hour  since,  and  what  mark  of  me  remains  ? 

I  dare  not  always  touch  her,  lest  the  kiss 

Leave  my  lips  charred.     Yea,  Lord,  a  little  bliss, 

Brief  bitter  bliss,  one  hath  for  a  great  sin; 
Nathless  thou  knqwest  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is. 

19 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Sin,  is  it  sin  whereby  men's  souls  are  thrust 
Into  the  pit?  yet  had  I  a  good  trust 

To  save  my  soul  before  it  slipped  therein, 
Trod  under  by  the  fire-shod  feet  of  lust. 

For  if  mine  eyes  fail  and  my  soul  takes  breath, 
I  look  between  the  iron  sides  of  death 

Into  sad  hell  where  all  sweet  love  hath  end, 
All  but  the  pain  that  never  finisheth. 

There  are  the  naked  faces  of  great  kings 
The  singing  folk  with  all  their  lute-playings ; 

There  when  one  cometh  he  shall  have  to  friend 
The  grave  that  covets  and  the  worm  that  clings. 

There  sit  the  knights  that  were  so  great  of  hand, 
The  ladies  that  were  queens  of  fair  green  land, 

Grown  grey  and  black  now,  brought  unto  the  dust, 
Soiled,  without  raiment,  clad  about  with  sand. 

There  is  one  end  for.  all  of  them ;  they  sit 
Naked  and  sad,  they  drink  the  dregs  of  it, 

Trodden  as  grapes  in  the  wine-press  of  lust, 
Trampled  and  trodden  by  the  fiery  feet. 

I  see  the  marvellous  mouth  whereby  there  fell 
Cities  and  people  whom  the  gods  loved  well, 
Yet  for  her  sake  on  them  the  fire  gat  hold, 
And  for  their  sakes  on  her  the  fire  of  hell. 

And  softer  than  the  Egyptian  lote-leaf  is, 
The  queen  whose  face  was  worth  the  worl4  to  kiss, 

20 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Wearing  at  breast  a  suckling  snake  of  gold; 
And  large  pale  lips  of  strong  Semiramis, 

Curled  like  a  tiger's  that  curl  back  to  feed; 
Red  only  where  the  last  kiss  made  them  bleed; 

Her  hair  most  thick  with  many  a  carven  gem, 
Deep  in  the  mane,  great-chested,  like  a  steed. 

Yea,  with  red  sin  the  faces  of  them  shine; 
But  in  all  these  there  was  no  sin  like  mine; 

No,  not  in  all  the  strange  great  sins  of  them 
That  made    the   wine-press  froth  and  foam  with 
wine. 

For  I  was  of  Christ's  choosing,  I  God's  knight, 
No  blinkard  heathen  stumbling  for  scant  light ; 

I  can  well  see,  for  all  the  dusty  days 
Gone  past,  the  clean  great  time  of  goodly  fight. 

I  smell  the  breathing  battle  sharp  with  blows, 
With  shriek  of  shafts  and  snapping  short  of  bows; 

The  fair  pure  sword  smites  out  in  subtle  ways, 
Sounds  and  long  lights  are  shed  between  the  rows 

Of  beautiful  mailed  men;  the  edged  light  slips, 
Most    like    a    snake  that  takes   short   breath   and 

dips 

Sharp  from  the  beautifully  bending  head, 
With  all  its  gracious  body  lithe  as  lips 

That  curl  in  touching  you;  right  in  this  wise 
My  sword  doth,  seeming  fire  in  mine  own  eyes, 

21 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Leaving  all  colours  in  them  brown  and  red 
And  flecked  with  death;  then  the  keen  breaths  like 
sighs, 

The  caught-up  choked  dry  laughters  following  them, 
When  all  the  fighting  face  is  grown  a  flame 

For  pleasure,  and  the  pulse  that  stuns  the  ears, 
And  the  heart's  gladness  of  the  goodly  game. 

Let  me  think  yet  a  little;  I  do  know 

These   things   were   sweet,  but    sweet    such    years 

ago, 

Their  savour  is  all  turned  now  into  tears; 
Yea,  ten  years  since,  where  the  blue  ripples  blow, 

The  blue  curled  eddies  of  the  blowing  Rhine, 
I  felt  the  sharp  wind  shaking  grass  and  vine 

Touch  my  blood  too,  and  sting  me  with  delight 
Through  all  this  waste  and  weary  body  of  mine 

That  never  feels  clear  air;  right  gladly  then 
I  rode  alone,  a  great  way  off  my  men, 

And  heard  the  chiming  bridle  smite  and  smite, 
And  gave  each  rhyme  thereof  some  rhyme  again, 

Till  my  song  shifted  to  that  iron  one; 
Seeing  there  rode  up  between  me  and  the  sun 
Some  certain  of  my  foe's  men,  for  his  three 
White  wolves  across  their  painted  coats  did  run. 

The  first  red-bearded,  with  square  cheeks — alack, 
I  made  my  knave's  blood  turn  his  beard  to  black; 

22 


LAUS  VENERIS 

The  slaying  of  him  was  a  joy  to  see: 
Perchance  too,  when  at  night  he  came  not  back, 

Some  woman  fell  a-weeping,  whom  this  thief 
Would  beat  when  he  had  drunken;  yet  small  grief 

Hath  any  for  the  ridding  of  such  knaves; 
Yea,  if  one  wept,  I  doubt  her  teen  was  brief. 

This  bitter  love  is  sorrow  in  all  lands, 

Draining  of  eyelids,  wringing  of  drenched  hands, 

Sighing  of  hearts  and  filling  up  of  graves ; 
A  sign  across  the  head  of  the  world  he  stands, 

An  one  that  hath  a  plague-mark  on  his  brows; 
Dust  and  spilt  blood  do  track  him  to  his  house 

Down  under  earth;  sweet  smells  of  lip  and  cheek, 
Like   a   sweet   snake's  breath   made  more   poison- 
ous 

With  chewing  of  some  perfumed  deadly  grass, 
Are  shed  all  round  his  passage  if  he  pass, 

And  their  quenched  savour  leaves  the  whole  soul 

weak, 
Sick  with  keen  guessing  whence  the  perfume  was. 

As  one  who  hidden  in  deep  sedge  and  reeds 
Smells  the  rare  scent  made  where  a  panther  feeds, 

And  tracking  ever  slotwise  the  warm  smell 
Is  snapped  upon  by  the  sweet  mouth  and  bleeds, 

His  head  far  down  the  hot  sweet  throat  of  her — 
So  one  tracks  love,  whose  breath  is  deadlier, 

23 


LAUS  VENERIS 

And  lo,  one  springe  and  you  are  fast  in  hell, 
Fast  as  the  gin's  grip  of  a  wayfarer. 

I  think  now,  as  the  heavy  hours  decease 
One  after  one,  and  bitter  thoughts  increase 

One  upon  one,  of  all  sweet  finished  things; 
The  breaking  of  the  battle;  the  long  peace 

Wherein  we  sat  clothed  softly,  each  man's  hair 
Crowned  with  green  leaves  beneath  white  hoods  of 

vair ; 

The  sounds  of  sharp  spears  at  great  tourneyings, 
And  noise  of  singing  in  the  late  sweet  air. 

I  sang  of  love  too,  knowing  nought  thereof; 
"Sweeter,"  I  said,  "the  little  laugh  of  love 
Than  tears  out  of  the  eyes  of  Magdalen, 
Or  any  fallen  feather  of  the  Dove. 

"The  broken  little  laugh  that  spoils  a  kiss, 
The  ache  of  purple  pulses,  and  the  bliss 

Of  blinded  eyelids  that  expand  again — 
Love  draws  them  open  with  those  lips  of  his, 

"Lips   that   cling    hard   till   the    kissed   face   has 

grown 
Of  one  same  fire  and  colour  with  their  own; 

Then  ere  one  sleep,  appeased  with  sacrifice, 
Where  his  lips  wounded,  there  his  lips  atone." 

I  sang  these  things  long  since  and  knew  them  not ; 
"Lo,  here  is  love,  or  there  is  love,  God  wot, 

24 


LAUS  VENERIS 

This  man  and  that  finds  favour  in  his  eyes," 
I  said,  "but  I,  what  guerdon  have  I  got? 

4 '  The  dust  of  praise  that  is  blown  everywhere 
In  all  men's  faces  with  the  common  air; 

The  bay-leaf  that  wants  chafing  to  be  sweet 
Before  they  wind  it  in  a  singer's  hair." 

So  that  one  dawn  I  rode  forth  sorrowing; 
I  had  no  hope  but  of  some  evil  thing, 

And  so  rode  slowly  past  the  windy  wheat 
And  past  the  vineyard  and  the  water-spring, 

Up  to  the  Horsel.     A  great  elder-tree 
Held  back  its  heaps  of  flowers  to  let  me  see 

The  ripe  tall  grass,  and  one  that  walked  therein, 
Naked,  with  hair  shed  over  to  the  knee. 

She  walked  between  the  blossom  and  the  grass; 
I  knew  the  beauty  of  her,  what  she  was, 

The  beauty  of  her  body  and  her  sin, 
And  in  my  flesh  the  sin  of  hers,  alas! 

Alas!  for  sorrow  is  all  the  end  of  this. 

0  sad  kissed  mouth,  how  sorrowful  it  is! 

O  breast  whereat  some  suckling  sorrow  clings, 
Red  with  the  bitter  blossom  of  a  kiss! 

Ah,  with  blind  lips  I  felt  for  you,  and  found 
About  my  neck  your  hands  and  hair  enwound, 
The  hands  that  stifle  and  the  hair  that  stings, 

1  felt  them  fasten  sharply  without  sound. 

25 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Yea,  for  my  sin  I  had  great  store  of  bliss: 
Rise  up,  make  answer  for  me,  let  thy  kiss 

Seal  my  lips  hard  from  speaking  of  my  sin, 
Lest  one  go  mad  to  hear  how  sweet  it  is. 

Yet  I  waxed  faint  with  fume  of  barren  bowers, 
And  murmuring  of  the  heavy-headed  hours; 

And  let  the  dove's  beak  fret  and  peck  within 
My  lips  in  vain,  and  Love  shed  fruitless  flowers. 

So  that  God  looked  upon  me  when  your  hands 
Were  hot  about  me;  yea,  God  brake  my  bands 

To  save  my  soul  alive,  and  came  forth 
Like  a  man  blind  and  naked  in  strange  lands 

That  hears  men  laugh  and  weep,  and  knows  not 

whence 
Nor  wherefore,  but  is  broken  in  his  sense; 

Howbeit  I  met  folk  riding  from  the  north 
Towards    Rome,    to    purge    them    of   their    souls' 

offence, 

And  rode  with  them,  and  spake  to  none;  the  day 
Stunned  me  like  lights  upon  some  wizard  way, 

And  ate  like  fire  mine  eyes  and  mine  eyesight; 
So  rode  I,  hearing  all  these  chant  and  pray, 

And  marvelled;  till  before  us  rose  and  fell 
White  cursed  hills,  like  outer  skirts  of  hell 

Seen  where  men's  eyes  look  through  the  day  to 

night, 

Like  a  jagged  shell's  lips,  harsh,  untunable, 

26 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Blown  in  between  by  devils'  wrangling  breath; 
Nathless  we  won  well  past  that  hell  and  death, 

Down  to  the  sweet  land  where  all  airs  are  good, 
Even  unto  Rome  where  God's  grace  tarrieth. 

Then  came  each  man  and  worshipped  at  his  knees 
Who  in  the  Lord  God's  likeness  bears  the  keys 
To  bind  or  loose,  and  called  on  Christ's  shed 

blood, 
And  so  the  sweet-souled  father  gave  him  ease. 

But  when  I  came  I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 

Saying,  "Father,  though  the  Lord's  blood  be  right 

sweet, 

The  spot  it  takes  not  off  the  panther's  skin, 
Nor  shall  an  Ethiop's  stain  be  bleached  with  it. 

"Lo,  I  have  sinned  and  have  spat  out  at  God, 
Wherefore  his  hand  is  heavier  and  his  rod 

More  sharp  because  of  mine  exceeding  sin, 
And  all  his  raiment  redder  than  bright  blood 

"Before  mine  eyes;  yea,  for  my  sake  I  wot 
The  heat  of  hell  is  waxen  seven  times  hot 

Through  my  great  sin."     Then  spake  he  some 

sweet  word, 
Giving  me  cheer;  which  thing  availed  me  not; 

Yea,  scarce  I  wist  if  such  indeed  were  said; 
For  when  I  ceased — lo,  as  one  newly  dead 

Who  hears  a  great  cry  out  of  hell,  I  heard 
The  crying  of  his  voice  across  my  head, 
s  27 


LAUS  VENERIS 

"Until  this  dry  shred  staff,  that  hath  no  whit 
Of  leaf  nor  bark,  bear  blossom  and  smell  sweet, 

Seek  thou  not  any  mercy  in  God's  sight, 
For  so  long  shalt  thou  be  cast  out  from  it." 

Yea,  what  if  dried-up  stems  wax  red  and  green, 
Shall  that  thing  be  which  is  not  nor  has  been  ? 

Yea,  what  if  sapless  bark  wax  green  and  white, 
Shall  any  good  fruit  grow  upon  my  sin? 

Nay,  though    sweet  fruit  were   plucked  of  a  dry 

tree, 

And  though  men  drew  sweet  waters  of  the  sea, 
There  should  not  grow  sweet  leaves  on  this  dead 

stem, 
This  waste  wan  body  and  shaken  soul  of  me. 

Yea,  though  God  search  it  warily  enough, 
There  is  not  one  sound  thing  in  all  thereof; 

Though  he  search  all  my  veins  through,  searching 

them 
He  shall  find  nothing  whole  therein  but  love. 

For  I  came  home  right  heavy,  with  small  cheer, 
And  lo  my  love,  mine  own  soul's  heart,  more  dear 

Than  mine  own  soul,  more  beautiful  than  God, 
Who  hath  my  being  between  the  hands  of  her — 

Fair  still,  but  fair  for  no  man  saving  me, 
As  when  she  came  out  of  the  naked  sea 

Making  the  foam  as  fire  whereon  she  trod, 
And  as  the  inner  flower  of  fire  was  she. 

28 


LAUS  VENERIS 

Yea,  she  laid  hold  upon  me,  and  her  mouth 
Clove  unto  mine  as  soul  to  body  doth, 

And,  laughing,  made  her  lips  luxurious; 
Her  hair  had  smells  of  all  the  sunburnt  south, 

Strange  spice  and  flower,  strange  savour  of  crushed 
fruit, 

And  perfume  the  swart  kings  tread  underfoot 
For    pleasure    when    their    minds    wax    amor- 
ous, 

Charred  frankincense  and  grated  sandal-root. 

And  I  forgot  fear  and  all  weary  things, 

All  ended  prayers  and  perished  thanksgivings, 

Feeling  her  face  with  all  her  eager  hair 
Cleave  to  me,  clinging  as  a  fire  that  clings 

To  the  body  and  to  the  raiment,  burning  them; 
As  after  death  I  know  that  such-like  flame 

Shall  cleave  to  me  for  ever;  yea,  what  care, 
Albeit  I  burn  then,  having  felt  the  same? 

Ah  love,  there  is  no  better  life  than  this; 
To  have  known  love,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is, 

And  afterward  be  cast  out  of  God's  sight; 
Yea,  these  that  know  not,  shall  they  have  such 
bliss 

High  up  in  barren  heaven  before  his  face 
As  we  twain  in  the  heavy-hearted  place, 

Remembering  love  and  all  the  dead  delight, 
And  all  that  time  was  sweet  with  for  a  space? 

29 


LAUS  VENERIS 

For  till  the  thunder  in  the  trumpet  be, 
Soul  may  divide  from  body,  but  not  we 

One  from  another;  I  hold  thee  with  my  hand, 
I  let  mine  eyes  have  all  their  will  of  thee, 

I  seal  myself  upon  thee  with  my  might, 
Abiding  alway  out  of  all  men's  sight 
Until  God  loosen  over  sea  and  land 
The  thunder  of  the  trumpets  of  the  night. 

EXPLICIT    LAUS    VENERIS. 


PH^DRA 

HIPPOLYTUS;  PH^DRA;  CHORUS  OF  TRCEZENIAN 
WOMEN 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

LAY  not  thine  hand  upon  me;  let  me  go; 

Take  off  thine  eyes  that  put  the  gods  to  shame; 

What,  wilt  thou  turn  my  loathing  to  thy  death  ? 

PH^DRA. 

Nay,  I  will  never  loosen  hold  nor  breathe 

Till  thou  have  slain  me;  godlike  for  great  brows 

Thou  art,  and  thewed  as  gods  are,  with  clear  hair: 

Draw  now  thy  sword  and  smite  me  as  thou  art  god, 

For  verily  I  am  smitten  of  other  gods, 

Why  not  of  thee  ? 

CHORUS. 

O  queen,  take  heed  of  words; 
Why  wilt  thou  eat  the  husk  of  evil  speech? 
Wear  wisdom  for  that  veil  about  thy  head 
And  goodness  for  the  binding  of  thy  brows. 

PH^DRA. 

Nay,  but  this  god  hath  cause  enow  to  smite; 
If  he  will  slay  me,  baring  breast  and  throat, 


PHAEDRA 

I  lean  toward  the  stroke  with  silent  mouth 
And  a  great  heart.     Come,  take  thy  sword  and  slay; 
Let  me  not  starve  between  desire  and  death, 
But  send  me  on  my  way  with  glad  wet  lips; 
For  in  the  vein-drawn  ashen-coloured  palm 
Death's  hollow  hand  holds  water  of  sweet  draught 
To  dip  and  slake  dried  mouths  at,  as  a  deer 
Specked  red  from  thorns  laps  deep  and  loses  pain. 
Yea,  if  mine  own  blood  ran  upon  my  mouth, 
I  would  drink  that.     Nay,  but  be  swift  with  me; 
Set  thy  sword  here  between  the  girdle  and  breast, 
For  I  shall  grow  a  poison  if  I  live. 
Are  not  my  cheeks  as  grass,  my  body  pale, 
And  my  breath  like  a  dying  poisoned  man's? 

0  whatsoever  of  godlike  names  thou  be, 

By  thy   chief   name   I   charge    thee,   thou    strong 

god, 

And  bid  thee  slay  me.     Strike,  up  to  the  gold, 
Up  to  the  hand-grip  of  the  hilt;  strike  here; 
For  I  am  Cretan  of  my  birth;  strike  now; 
For  I  am  Theseus'  wife;  stab  up  to  the  rims, 

1  am  born  daughter  to  Pasiphae. 

See  thou  spare  not  for  greatness  of  my  blood, 
Nor  for  the  shining  letters  of  my  name: 
Make  thy  sword  sure  inside  thine  hand  and  smite, 
For  the  bright  writing  of  my  name  is  black, 
And  I  am  sick  with  hating  the  sweet  sun. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

Let  not  this  woman  wail  and  cleave  to  me, 
That  am  no  part  of  the  gods'  wrath  with  her; 
Loose  ye  her  hands  from  me  lest  she  take  hurt. 

32 


PPLEDRA 

CHORUS. 

Lady,  this  speech  and  majesty  are  twain; 
Pure  shame  is  of  one  counsel  with  the  gods. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 
Man  is  as  beast  when  shame  stands  off  from  him. 

PHJEDRA. 

Man,  what  have  I  to  do  with  shame  or  thee  ? 

I  am  not  of  one  counsel  with  the  gods. 

I  am  their  kin,  I  have  strange  blood  in  me, 

I  am  not  of  their  likeness  nor  of  thine: 

My  veins  are  mixed,  and  therefore  am  I  mad, 

Yea  therefore  chafe  and  turn  on  mine  own  flesh, 

Half  of  a  woman  made  with  half  a  god. 

But  thou  wast  hewn  out  of  an  iron  womb 

And  fed  with  molten  mother-snow  for  milk. 

A  sword  was  nurse  of  thine;  Hippolyta, 

That  had  the  spear  to  father,  and  the  axe 

To  bridesman,  and  wet  blood  of  sword-slain  men 

For  wedding- water  out  of  a  noble  well, 

Even  she  did  bear  thee,  thinking  of  a  sword, 

And  thou  wast  made  a  man  mistakingly. 

Nay,  for  I  love  thee,  I  will  have  thy  hands, 

Nay,  for  I  will  not  loose  thee,  thou  art  sweet, 

Thou  art  my  son,  I  am  thy  father's  wife, 

I  ache  toward  thee  with  a  bridal  blood, 

The  pulse  is  heavy  in  all  my  married  veins, 

My  whole  face  beats,  I  will  feed  full  of  thee, 

My  body  is  empty  of  ease,  I  will  be  fed, 

I  am  burnt  to  the  bone  with  love,  thou  shalt  not  go, 

I  am  heartsick,  and  mine  eyelids  prick  mine  eyes, 

33 


PH^DRA 

Thou  shalt  not  sleep  nor  eat  nor  say  a  word 
Till  thou  hast  slain  me.     I  am  not  good  to  live. 

CHORUS. 

This  is  an  evil  born  with  all  its  teeth, 
When  love  is  cast  out  of  the  bound  of  love. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 
There  is  no  hate  that  is  so  hateworthy. 

PHvEDRA. 

I  pray  thee  turn  that  hate  of  thine  my  way, 

I  hate  not  it  nor  anything  of  thine. 

Lo,  maidens,  how  he  burns  about  the  brow, 

And    draws    the    chafing    sword -strap    down    his 

hand. 
What   wilt   thou    do?    wilt   thou   be    worse   than 

death  ? 

Be  but  as  sweet  as  is  the  bitterest, 
The  most  dispiteous  out  of  all  the  gods, 
I  am  well  pleased.     Lo,  do  I  crave  so  much? 
I  do  but  bid  thee  be  unmerciful, 
Even  the  one  thing  thou  art.     Pity  me  not: 
Thou  wert  not  quick  to  pity.     Think  of  me 
As  of  a  thing  thy  hounds  are  keen  upon 
In  the  wet  woods  between  the  windy  ways, 
And  slay  me  for  a  spoil.     This  body  of  mine 
Is  worth  a  wild  beast's  fell  or  hide  of  hair, 
And  spotted  deeper  than  a  panther's  grain. 
I  were  but  dead  if  thou  wert  pure  indeed; 
I  pray  thee  by  thy  cold  green  holy  crown 
And  by  the  fillet-leaves  of  Artemis. 

34 


PILEDRA 

Nay,  but  thou  wilt  not.     Death  is  not  like  thee, 

Albeit  men  hold  him  worst  of  all  the  gods. 

For  of  all  gods  Death  only  loves  not  gifts,1 

Nor  with  burnt-offering  nor  blood-sacrifice 

Shalt  thou  do  aught  to  get  thee  grace  of  him; 

He  will  have  nought  of  altar  and  altar-song, 

And  from  him  only  of  all  the  lords  in  heaven 

Persuasion  turns  a  sweet  averted  mouth. 

But  thou  art  worse:  from  thee  with  baffled  breath 

Back  on  my  lips  my  prayer  falls  like  a  blow, 

And  beats  upon  them,  dumb.     What  shall  I  say  ? 

There  is  no  word  I  can  compel  thee  with 

To  do  me  good  and  slay  me.     But  take  heed; 

I  say,  be  wary;  look  between  thy  feet, 

Lest  a  snare  take  them  though  the  ground  be  good. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

Shame  may  do  most  where  fear  is  found  most  weak ; 
That  which  for  shame's  sake  yet  I  have  not  done 
Shall  it  be  done  for  fear's?  Take  thine  own  way; 
Better  the  foot  slip  than  the  whole  soul  swerve. 

PHAEDRA. 

The  man  is  choice  and  exquisite  of  mouth; 
Yet  in  the  end  a  curse  shall  curdle  it. 

CHORUS. 

He  goes  with  cloak  upgathered  to  the  lip, 
Holding  his  eye  as  with  some  ill  in  sight. 

1  JEsch.  Fr.  Niobe : — 

uv  yity)  Guvarof  ov  dupuv  ipif,  /c.r.3, 

35 


PH^DRA 

PH.EDRA. 

A  bitter  ill  he  hath  i'  the  way  thereof, 
And  it  shall  burn  the  sight  out  as  with  fire. 

CHORUS. 
Speak  no  such  word  whereto  mischance  is  kin. 

PH^DRA. 
Out  of  my  heart  and  by  fate's  leave  I  speak. 

CHORUS. 
Set  not  thy  heart  to  follow  after  fate. 

PHAEDRA. 
O  women,  O  sweet  people  of  this  land, 

0  goodly  city  and  pleasant  ways  thereof, 

And  woods  with  pasturing  grass  and  great  well- 
heads, 

And  hills  with  light  and  night  between  your  leaves, 
And  winds  with  sound  and  silence  in  your  lips, 
And  earth  and  water  and  all  immortal  things, 

1  take  you  to  my  witness  what  I  am. 
There  is  a  god  about  me  like  as  fire, 

Sprung  whence,  who  knoweth,  or  who  hath  heart  to 

say? 
A  god  more  strong  than  whom  slain  beasts  can 

soothe, 

Or  honey,  or  any  spilth  of  blood-like  wine, 
Nor  shall  one  please  him  with  a  whitened  brow 
Nor  wheat  nor  wool  nor  aught  of  plaited  leaf. 
For  like  my  mother  am  I  stung  and  slain, 
And  round  my  cheeks  have  such  red  malady 

36 


PHAEDRA 

And  on  my  lips  such  fire  and  foam  as  hers. 

This  is  that  Ate  out  of  Amathus 

That  breeds  up  death  and  gives  it  one  for  love. 

She  hath  slain  mercy,  and  for  dead  mercy's  sake 

(Being  frighted  with  this  sister  that  was  slain) 

Flees  from  before  her  fearful-footed  shame, 

And  will  not  bear  the  bending  of  her  brows 

And  long  soft  arrows  flown  from  under  them 

As  from  bows  bent.     Desire  flows  out  of  her 

As  out  of  lips  doth  speech:  and  over  her 

Shines  fire,  and  round  her  and  beneath  her  fire. 

She  hath  sown  pain  and  plague  in  all  our  house, 

Love  loathed  of  love,  and  mates  unmatchable, 

Wild  wedlock,  and  the  lusts  that  bleat  or  low, 

And  marriage-fodder  snuffed  about  of  kine. 

Lo  how  the  heifer  runs  with  leaping  flank 

Sleek  under  shaggy  and  speckled  lies  of  hair, 

And  chews  a  horrible  lip,  and  with  harsh  tongue 

Laps  alien  froth  and  licks  a  loathlier  mouth. 

Alas,  a  foul  first  steam  of  trodden  tares, 

And  fouler  of  these  late  grapes  underfoot. 

A  bitter  way  of  waves  and  clean-cut  foam 

Over  the  sad  road  of  sonorous  sea 

The  high  gods  gave  king  Theseus  for  no  love, 

Nay,  but  for  love,  yet  to  no  loving  end. 

Alas  the  long  thwarts  and  the  fervent  oars, 

And  blown  hard  sails  that  straightened  the  scant 

rope! 

There  were  no  strong  pools  in  the  hollow  sea 
To  drag  at  them  and  suck  down  side  and  beak, 
No  wind  to  catch  them  in  the  teeth  and  hair, 
No  shoal,  no  shallow  among  the  roaring  reefs, 

37 


PH^DRA 

No  gulf  whereout  the  straining  tides  throw  spars, 
No  surf  where  white  bones  twist  like  whirled  white 

fire. 

But  like  to  death  he  came  with  death,  and  sought 
And  slew  and  spoiled  and  gat  him  that  he  would. 
For  death,  for  marriage,  and  for  child-getting, 
I  set  my  curse  against  him  as  a  sword; 
Yea,  and  the  severed  half  thereof  I  leave 
Pittheus,  because  he  slew  not  (when  that  face 
Was  tender,  and  the  life  still  soft  in  it) 
The  small  swathed  child,  but  bred  him  for  my  fate. 
I  would  I  had  been  the  first  that  took  her  death 
Out  from  between  wet  hoofs  and  reddened  teeth, 
Splashed  horns,  fierce  fetlocks  of  the  brother  bull! 
For  now  shall  I  take  death  a  deadlier  way, 
Gathering  it  up  between  the  feet  of  love 
Or  off  the  knees  of  murder  reaching  it. 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF  TIME 

BEFORE  our  lives  divide  for  ever, 

While  time  is  with  us  and  hands  are  free, 

(Time,  swift  to  fasten  and  swift  to  sever 
Hand  from  hand,  as  we  stand  by  the  sea) 

I  will  say  no  word  that  a  man  might  say 

Whose  whole  life's  love  goes  down  in  a  day; 

For  this  could  never  have  been;  and  never, 

Though  the  gods  and  the  years  relent,  shall  be. 

Is  it  worth  a  tear,  is  it  worth  an  hour, 
To  think  of  things  that  are  well  outworn  ? 

Of  fruitless  husk  and  fugitive  flower, 

The  dream  foregone  and  the  deed  forborne? 

Though  joy  be  done  with  and  grief  be  vain, 

Time  shall  not  sever  us  wholly  in  twain; 

Earth  is  not  spoilt  for  a  single  shower; 

But  the  rain  has  ruined  the  ungrown  corn. 

It  will  grow  not  again,  this  fruit  of  my  heart, 
Smitten  with  sunbeams,  ruined  with  rain. 

The  singing  seasons  divide  and  depart, 
Winter  and  summer  depart  in  twain. 

It  will  grow  not  again,  it  is  ruined  at  root, 

The  bloodlike  blossom,  the  dull  red  fruit; 

Though  the  heart  yet  sickens,  the  lips  yet  smart, 
With  sullen  savour  of  poisonous  pain. 
39 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

I  have  given  no  man  of  my  fruit  to  eat; 

I  trod  the  grapes,  I  have  drunken  the  wine. 
Had  you  eaten  and  drunken  and  found  it  sweet, 

This  wild  new  growth  of  the  corn  and  vine, 
This  wine  and  bread  without  lees  or  leaven, 
We  had  grown  as  gods,  as  the  gods  in  heaven, 
Souls  fair  to  look  upon,  goodly  to  greet, 

One  splendid  spirit,  your  soul  and  mine. 

In  the  change  of  years,  in  the  coil  of  things, 

In  the  clamour  and  rumour  of  life  to  be, 
We,  drinking  love  at  the  furthest  springs, 

Covered  with  love  as  a  covering  tree, 
We  had  grown  as  gods,  as  the  gods  above, 
Filled  from  the  heart  to  the  lips  with  love, 
Held  fast    in    his    hands,   clothed  warm  with  his 

wings, 
O  love,  my  love,  had  you  loved  but  me! 

We  had  stood  as  the  sure  stars  stand,  and  moved 
As  the  moon  moves,  loving  the  world;  and  seen 

Grief  collapse  as  a  thing  disproved, 
Death  consume  as  a  thing  unclean. 

Twain  halves  of  a  perfect  heart,  made  fast 

Soul  to  soul  while  the  years  fell  past; 

Had  you  loved  me  once,  as  you  have  not  loved ; 
Had  the  chance  been  with  us  that  has  not  been. 

I  have  put  my  days  and  dreams  out  of  mind, 
Days  that  are  over,  dreams  that  are  done. 

Though  we  seek  life  through,  we  shall  surely  find 
There  is  none  of  them  clear  to  us  now,  not  one. 
40 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

But    clear    are    these    things;    the    grass    and    the 

sand, 

Where,  sure  as  the  eyes  reach,  ever  at  hand, 
With  lips  wide  open  and  face  burnt  blind, 
The  strong  sea-daisies  feast  on  the  sun. 

The  low  downs  lean  to  the  sea;  the  stream, 
One  loose  thin  pulseless  tremulous  vein, 

Rapid  and  vivid  and  dumb  as  a  dream, 

Works  downward,  sick  of  the  sun  and  the  rain; 

No  wind  is  rough  with  the  rank  rare  flowers; 

The  sweet  sea,  mother  of  loves  and  hours, 

Shudders  and  shines  as  the  grey  winds  gleam, 
Turning  her  smile  to  a  fugitive  pain. 

Mother  of  loves  that  are  swift  to  fade, 
Mother  of  mutable  winds  and  hours. 
A  barren  mother,  a  mother-maid, 

Cold  and  clean  as  her  faint  salt  flowers. 
I  would  we  twain  were  even  as  she, 
Lost  in  the  night  and  the  light  of  the  sea, 
Where  faint  sounds  falter  and  wan  beams  wade, 
Break,  and  are  broken,  and  shed  into  showers. 

The  loves  and  hours  of  the  life  of  a  man, 

They  are  swift  and  sad,  being  born  of  the  sea. 

Hours  that  rejoice  and  regret  for  a  span, 
Born  with  a  man's  breath,  mortal  as  he; 

Loves  that  are  lost  ere  they  come  to  birth, 

Weeds  of  the  wave,  without  fruit  upon  earth. 

I  lose  what  I  long  for,  save  what  I  can, 
My  love,  my  love,  and  no  love  for  me! 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

It  is  not  much  that  a  man  can  save 

On  the  sands  of  life,  in  the  straits  of  time, 

Who  swims  in  sight  of  the  great  third  wave 
That  never  a  swimmer  shall  cross  or  climb. 

Some  waif  washed  up  with  the  strays  and  spars 

That  ebb-tide  shows  to  the  shore  and  the  stars; 

Weed  from  the  water,  grass  from  a  grave, 
A  broken  blossom,  a  ruined  rhyme. 

There  will  no  man  do  for  your  sake,  I  think, 

What  I  would  have  done  for  the  least  word  said. 
I  had  wrung  life  dry  for  your  lips  to  drink, 

Broken  it  up  for  your  daily  bread: 
Body  for  body  and  blood  for  blood, 
As  the  flow  of  the  full  sea  risen  to  flood 
That  yearns  and  trembles  before  it  sink, 

I  had  given,  and  lain  down  for  you,  glad  and  dead. 

Yea,  hope  at  highest  and  all  her  fruit, 
And  time  at  fullest  and  all  his  dower, 

I  had  given  you  surely,  and  life  to  boot, 
Were  we  once  made  one  for  a  single  hour. 

But  now,  you  are  twain,  you  are  cloven  apart, 

Flesh  of  his  flesh,  but  heart  of  my  heart; 

And  deep  in  one  is  the  bitter  root, 

And  sweet  for  one  is  the  lifelong  flower. 

To  have  died  if  you  cared  I  should  die  for  you,  clung 

To  my  life  if  you  bade  me,  played  my  part 
As  it  pleased  you — these  were  the  thoughts  that 

stung, 

The  dreams  that  smote  with  a  keener  dart 
42 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

Than  shafts  of  love  or  arrows  of  death; 
These  were  but  as  fire  is,  dust,  or  breath, 
Or  poisonous  foam  on  the  tender  tongue 
Of  the  little  snakes  that  eat  my  heart. 

I  wish  we  were  dead  together  to-day, 
Lost  sight  of,  hidden  away  out  of  sight, 

Clasped  and  clothed  in  the  cloven  clay, 
Out  of  the  world's  way,  out  of  the  light, 

Out  of  the  ages  of  worldly  weather, 

Forgotten  of  all  men  altogether, 

As  the  world's  first  dead,  taken  wholly  away, 
Made  one  with  death,  filled  full  of  the  night. 

How  we  should  slumber,  how  we  should  sleep, 
Far  in  the  dark  with  the  dreams  and  the  dews! 

And  dreaming,  grow  to  each  other,  and  weep, 
Laugh  low,  live  softly,  murmur  and  muse; 

Yea,  and  it  may  be,  struck  through  by  the  dream, 

Feel  the  dust  quicken  and  quiver,  and  seem 

Alive  as  of  old  to  the  lips,  and  leap 
Spirit  to  spirit  as  lovers  use. 

Sick  dreams  and  sad  of  a  dull  delight; 

For  what  shall  it  profit  when  men  are  dead 
To  have  dreamed,  to  have  loved  with  the  whole 
soul's  might, 

To  have  looked  for  day  when  the  day  was  fled? 
Let  come  what  will,  there  is  one  thing  worth, 
To  have  had  fair  love  in  the  life  upon  earth: 
To  have  held  love  safe  till  the  day  grew  night, 

While  skies  had  colour  and  lips  were  red. 
6  43 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

Would  I  lose  you  now?  would  I  take  you  then, 
If  I  lose  you  now  that  my  heart  has  need? 

And  come  what  may  after  death  to  men, 

What  thing  worth  this  will  the  dead  years  breed  ? 

Lose  life,  lose  all;  but  at  least  I  know, 

0  sweet  life's  love,  having  loved  you  so, 

Had  I  reached  you  on  earth,  I  should  lose  not  again, 
In  death  nor  life,  nor  in  dream  or  deed. 

Yea,  I  know  this  well:  were  you  once  sealed  mine, 
Mine  in  the  blood's  beat,  mine  in  the  breath, 

Mixed  into  me  as  honey  in  wine, 

Not  time,  that  sayeth  and  gainsayeth, 

Nor  all  strong  things  had  severed  us  then; 

Not  wrath  of  gods,  nor  wisdom  of  men, 

Nor  all  things  earthly,  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  joy  nor  sorrow,  nor  life  nor  death. 

1  had  grown  pure  as  the  dawn  and  the  dew, 
You  had  grown  strong  as  the  sun  or  the  sea. 

But  none  shall  triumph  a  whole  life  through: 
For  death  is  one,  and  the  fates  are  three. 

At  the  door  of  life,  by  the  gate  of  breath, 

There  are  worse  things  waiting  for  men  than  death ; 

Death  could  not  sever  my  soul  and  you, 
As  these  have  severed  your  soul  from  me. 

You  have  chosen  and  clung  to  the  chance  they  sent 

you, 

Life  sweet  as  perfume  and  pure  as  prayer. 
But  will  it  not  one  day  in  heaven  repent  you? 
Will  they  solace  you  wholly,  the  days  that  were  ? 
44 


THE  TRIUMPH  OP  TIME 

Will  you  lift  up  your  eyes  between  sadness  and  bliss, 

Meet  mine,  and  see  where  the  great  love  is, 

And  tremble  and  turn  and  be  changed?     Content 

you; 
The  gate  is  strait ;  I  shall  not  be  there. 

But  you,  had  you  chosen,  had  you  stretched  hand, 
Had  you  seen  good  such  a  thing  were  done, 

I  too  might  have  stood  with  the  souls  that  stand 
In  the  sun's  sight,  clothed  with  the  light  of  the  sun ; 

But  who  now  on  earth  need  care  how  I  live? 

Have  the  high  gods  anything  left  to  give, 

Save  dust  and  laurels  and  gold  and  sand? 
Which  gifts  are  goodly;  but  I  will  none. 

O  all  fair  lovers  about  the  world, 

There  is  none  of  you,  none,  that  shall  comfort  me. 
My  thoughts  are  as  dead  things,  wrecked  and  whirled 

Round  and  round  in  a  gulf  of  the  sea; 
And  still,  through  the  sound  and  the  straining  stream, 
Through  the  coil  and  chafe,  they  gleam  in  a  dream, 
The  bright  fine  lips  so  cruelly  curled, 

And  strange  swift  eyes  where  the  soul  sits  free. 

Free,  without  pity,  withheld  from  woe, 

Ignorant;  fair  as  the  eyes  are  fair. 
Would  I  have  you  change  now,  change  at  a  blow, 

Startled  and  stricken,  awake  and  aware? 
Yea,  if  I  could,  would  I  have  you  see 
My  very  love  of  you  filling  me, 
And  know  my  soul  to  the  quick,  as  I  know 

The  likeness  and  look  of  your  throat  and  hair? 

45 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

I  shall  not  change  you.     Nay,  though  I  might, 
Would    I    change    my    sweet    one    love   with   a 
word? 

I  had  rather  your  hair  should  change  in  a  night, 
Clear  now  as  the  plume  of  a  black  bright  bird; 

Your  face  fail  suddenly,  cease,  turn  grey, 

Die  as  a  leaf  that  dies  in  a  day. 

I  will  keep  my  soul  in  a  place  out  of  sight, 
Far  off,  where  the  pulse  of  it  is  not  heard. 

Far  off  it  walks,  in  a  bleak  blown  space, 
Full  of  the  sound  of  the  sorrow  of  years. 

I  have  woven  a  veil  for  the  weeping  face, 
Whose  lips  have  drunken  the  wine  of  tears; 

I  have  found  a  way  for  the  failing  feet, 

A  place  for  slumber  and  sorrow  to  meet; 

There  is  no  rumour  about  the  place, 
Nor  light,  nor  any  that  sees  or  hears. 

I  have  hidden  my  soul  out  of  sight,  and  said 

"Let  none  take  pity  upon  thee,  none 
Comfort  thy  crying:  for  lo,  thou  art  dead, 

Lie  still  now,  safe  out  of  sight  of  the  sun. 
Have  I  not  built  thee  a  grave,  and  wrought 
Thy  grave-clothes  on  thee  of  grievous  thought, 
With  soft  spun  verses  and  tears  unshed, 
And  sweet  light  visions  of  things  undone  ? 

"I  have  given  thee  garments  and  balm  and  myrrh, 
And  gold,  and  beautiful  burial  things. 

But  thou,  be  at  peace  now,  make  no  stir; 
Is  not  thy  grave  as  a  royal  king's? 
46 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

Fret  not  thyself  though  the  end  were  sore; 
Sleep,  be  patient,  vex  me  no  more. 
Sleep;  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  her? 

The  eyes  that  weep,  with  the  mouth  that  sings?" 

Where  the  dead  red  leaves  of  the  years  lie  rotten, 

The  cold  old  crimes  and  the  deeds  thrown  by, 
The  misconceived  and  the  misbegotten, 

I  would  find  a  sin  to  do  ere  I  die, 
Sure  to  dissolve  and  destroy  me  all  through, 
That  would  set  you  higher  in  heaven,  serve  you 
And  leave  you  happy,  when  clean  forgotten, 
As  a  dead  man  out  of  mind,  am  I. 

Your  lithe  hands  draw  me,  your  face  burns  through 
me, 

I  am  swift  to  follow  you,  keen  to  see; 
But  love  lacks  might  to  redeem  or  undo  me; 

As  I  have  been,  I  know  I  shall  surely  be; 
"What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do?"     Nay, 
My  part  were  worse  if  I  chose  to  play; 
For  the  worst  is  this  after  all;  if  they  knew  me, 

Not  a  soul  upon  earth  would  pity  me. 

And  I  play  not  for  pity  of  these;  but  you, 

If  you  saw  with  your  soul  what  man  am  I, 
You  would  praise  me  at  least  that  my  soul  all  through 

Clove  to  you,  loathing  the  lives  that  lie; 
The  souls  and  lips  that  are  bought  and  sold, 
The  smiles  of  silver  and  kisses  of  gold, 
The  lapdog  loves  that  whine  as  they  chew, 
The  little  lovers  that  curse  and  cry. 
47 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

There  are  fairer  women,  I  hear;  that  may  be; 

But  I,  that  I  love  you  and  find  you  fair, 
Who  are  more  than  fair  in  my  eyes  if  they  be, 

Do  the  high  gods  know  or  the  great  gods  care  ? 
Though   the    swords   in  my   heart    for    one    were 

seven, 

Would  the  iron  hollow  of  doubtful  heaven, 
That  knows  not  itself  whether  night-time  or  day  be, 

Reverberate  words  and  a  foolish  prayer? 

I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother, 

Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea. 
I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other, 

Close  with  her,  kiss  her  and  mix  her  with  me. 
Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast: 
O  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 
Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother, 

Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 

0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine, 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves, 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves, 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships, 
Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide; 

My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside; 
48 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were, 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair, 
As  a  rose  is  fulfilled  to  the  roseleaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days, 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me, 

Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways, 
Alive  and  aware  of  thy  ways  and  thee; 

Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home, 

Clothed    with    the    green    and    crowned   with   the 
foam, 

A  pulse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 
A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  sea. 

Fair  mother,  fed  with  the  lives  of  men, 

Thou  art  subtle  and  cruel  of  heart,  men  say. 

Thou  hast  taken,  and  shalt  not  render  again; 
Thou  art  full  of  thy  dead,  and  cold  as  they. 

But  death  is  the  worst  that  comes  of  thee; 

Thou  art  fed  with  our  dead,  O  mother,  O  sea, 

But  when  hast  thou  fed  on  our  hearts?  or  when, 
Having  given  us  love,  hast  thou  taken  away? 

O  tender-hearted,  O  perfect  lover, 

Thy  lips  are  bitter,  and  sweet  thine  heart. 

The  hopes  that  hurt  and  the  dreams  that  hover, 
Shall  they  not  vanish  away  and  apart  ? 

But  thou,  thou  art  sure,  thou  art  older  than  earth; 

Thou  art  strong  for  death  and  fruitful  of  birth; 

Thy  depths  conceal  and  thy  gulfs  discover; 
From  the  first  thou  wert;  in  the  end  thou  art. 
49 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

And  grief  shall  endure  not  for  ever,  I  know. 

As  things  that  are  not  shall  these  things  be; 
We    shall    live    through    seasons    of    sun    and    of 
snow, 

And  none  be  grievous  as  this  to  me. 
We  shall  hear,  as  one  in  a  trance  that  hears, 
The  sound  of  time,  the  rhyme  of  the  years; 
Wrecked  hope  and  passionate  pain  will  grow 

As  tender  things  of  a  spring-tide  sea. 

Sea-fruit  that  swings  in  the  waves  that  hiss, 
Drowned  gold  and  purple  and  royal  rings. 
And  all  time  past,  was  it  all  for  this  ? 

Times  unforgotten,  and  treasures  of  things? 
Swift  years  of  liking  and  sweet  long  laughter, 
That  wist  not  well  of  the  years  thereafter 
Till  love  woke,  smitten  at  heart  by  a  kiss, 
With  lips  that  trembled  and  trailing  wings  ? 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 

By  the  tideless  dolorous  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 
And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail, 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail, 
Touched  land,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  praised  God,  seeing;  and  so  died  he. 

Died,  praising  God  for  his  gift  and  grace: 

For  she  bowed  down  to  him  weeping,  and  said 

"Live";  and  her  tears  were  shed  on  his  face 
Or  ever  the  life  in  his  face  was  shed. 
5° 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

The  sharp  tears  fell  through  her  hair,  and  stung 
Once,  and  her  close  lips  touched  him  and  clung 
Once,  and  grew  one  with  his  lips  for  a  space; 
And  so  drew  back,  and  the  man  was  dead. 

0  brother,  the  gods  were  good  to  you. 
Sleep,  and  be  glad  while  the  world  endures. 

Be  well  content  as  the  years  wear  through ; 

Give  thanks  for  life,  and  the  loves  and  lures; 
Give  thanks  for  life,  O  brother,  and  death, 
For  the  sweet  last  sound  of  her  feet,  her  breath, 
For  gifts  she  gave  you,  gracious  and  few, 

Tears  and  kisses,  that  lady  of  yours. 

Rest,  and  be  glad  of  the  gods;  but  I, 

How  shall  I  praise  them,  or  how  take  rest  ? 

There  is  not  room  under  all  the  sky 

For  me  that  know  not  of  worst  or  best, 

Dream  or  desire  of  the  days  before, 

Sweet  things  or  bitterness,  any  more. 

Love  will  not  come  to  me  now  though  I  die, 
As  love  came  close  to  you,  breast  to  breast. 

1  shall  never  be  friends  again  with  roses; 

I  shall  loathe  sweet  tunes,  where  a  note  grown 

strong 
Relents  and  recoils,  and  climbs  and  closes, 

As  a  wave  of  the  sea  turned  back  by  song. 
There  are  sounds  where  the  soul's  delight  takes  fire, 
Face  to  face  with  its  own  desire; 
A  delight  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes; 

I  shall  hate  sweet  music  my  whole  life  long. 

51 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

The  pulse  of  war  and  passion  of  wonder, 

The  heavens  that  murmur,  the  sounds  that  shine, 

The  stars  that  sing  and  the  loves  that  thunder, 
The  music  burning  at  heart  like  wine, 

An  armed  archangel  whose  hands  raise  up 

All  senses  mixed  in  the  spirit's  cup 

Till  flesh  and  spirit  are  molten  in  sunder — 
These  things  are  over,  and  no  more  mine. 

These  were  a  part  of  the  playing  I  heard 

Once,  ere  my  love  and  my  heart  were  at  strife; 

Love  that  sings  and  hath  wings  as  a  bird, 
Balm  of  the  wound  and  heft  of  the  knife. 

Fairer  than  earth  is  the  sea,  and  sleep 

Than  overwatching  of  eyes  that  weep, 

Now  time  has  done  with  his  one  sweet  word, 
The  wine  and  leaven  of  lovely  life. 

I  shall  go  my  ways,  tread  out  my  measure, 

Fill  the  days  of  my  daily  breath 
With  fugitive  things  not  good  to  treasure, 

Do  as  the  world  doth,  say  as  it  saith; 
But  if  we  had  loved  each  other — O  sweet, 
Had  you  felt,  lying  under  the  palms  of  your  feet, 
The  heart  of  my  heart,  beating  harder  with  pleasure 

To  feel  you  tread  it  to  dust  and  death — 

Ah,  had  I  not  taken  my  life  up  and  given 
All  that  life  gives  and  the  years  let  go, 
The  wine  and  honey,  the  balm  and  leaven, 

The  dreams  reared  high  and  the  hopes  brought 
low? 

52 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 

Come  life,  come  death,  not  a  word  be  said; 
Should  I  lose  you  living,  and  vex  you  dead? 
I  never  shall  tell  you  on  earth;  and  in  heaven, 
If  I  cry  to  you  then,  will  you  hear  or  know  ? 


LES  NOYADES 

WHATEVER  a  man  of  the  sons  of  men 
Shall  say  to  his  heart  of  the  lords  above, 

They  have  shown  man  verily,  once  and  again, 
Marvellous  mercies  and  infinite  love. 

In  the  wild  fifth  year  of  the  change  of  things, 
When  France  was  glorious  and  blood-red,  fair 

With  dust  of  battle  and  deaths  of  kings, 
A  queen  of  men,  with  helmeted  hair, 

Carrier  came  down  to  the  Loire  and  slew, 
Till  all  the  ways  and  the  waves  waxed  red: 

Bound  and  drowned,  slaying  two  by  two, 
Maidens  and  young  men,  naked  and  wed. 

They  brought  on  a  day  to  his  judgment-place 
One  rough  with  labour  and  red  with  fight, 

And  a  lady  noble  by  name  and  face, 
Faultless,  a  maiden,  wonderful,  white. 

She  knew  not,  being  for  shame's  sake  blind, 
If  his  eyes  were  hot  on  her  face  hard  by. 

And  the  judge  bade  strip  and  ship  them,  and  bind 
Bosom  to  bosom,  to  drown  and  die. 
54 


LES  NOYADES 

The  white  girl  winced  and  whitened;  but  he 

Caught  fire,  waxed  bright  as  a  great  bright  flame 

Seen  with  thunder  far  out  on  the  sea, 

Laughed  hard  as  the  glad  blood  went  and  came. 

Twice  his  lips  quailed  with  delight,  then  said, 
"I  have  but  a  word  to  you  all,  one  word; 

Bear  with  me;  surely  I  am  but  dead;" 

And  all  they  laughed  and  mocked  him  and  heard. 

"Judge,  when  they  open  the  judgment -roll, 
I  will  stand  upright  before  God  and  pray: 

'Lord  God,  have  mercy  on  one  man's  soul, 
For  his  mercy  was  great  upon  earth,  I  say. 

'"Lord,  if  I  loved  thee — Lord,  if  I  served — 
If  these  who  darkened  thy  fair  Son's  face 

I  fought  with,  sparing  not  one,  nor  swerved 
A  hand's-breath,  Lord,  in  the  perilous  place — 

'"I  pray  thee  say  to  this  man,  O  Lord, 
Sit  thou  for  him  at  my  feet  on  a  throne, 

I  will  face  thy  wrath,  though  it  bite  as  a  sword, 
And  my  soul  shall  burn  for  his  soul,  and  atone. 

"'For,  Lord,  thou  knowest,  O  God  most  wise, 
How  gracious  on  earth  were  his  deeds  towards  me. 

Shall  this  be  a  small  thing  in  thine  eyes, 

That  is  greater  in  mine  than  the  whole  great  sea  ?' 

"I  have  loved  this  woman  my  whole  life  long, 
And  even  for  love's  sake  when  have  I  said 
55 


LES  NOYADES 

'  I  love  you '  ?  when  have  I  done  you  wrong, 
Living?  but  now  I  shall  have  you  dead. 

"Yea,  now,  do  I  bid  you  love  me,  love? 

Love  me  or  loathe,  we  are  one  not  twain. 
But  God  be  praised  in  his  heaven  above 

For  this  my  pleasure  and  that  my  pain! 

"For  never  a  man,  being  mean  like  me, 
Shall  die  like  me  till  the  whole  world  dies. 

I  shall  drown  with  her,  laughing  for  love;  and  she 
Mix  with  me,  touching  me,  lips  and  eyes. 

"Shall  she  not  know  me  and  see  me  all  through, 
Me,  on  whose  heart  as  a  worm  she  trod? 

You  have  given  me,  God  requite  it  you, 
What  man  yet  never  was  given  of  God." 

0  sweet  one  love,  O  my  life's  delight, 
Dear,  though  the  days  have  divided  us, 

Lost  beyond  hope,  taken  far  out  of  sight, 

Not  twice  in  the  world  shall  the  gods  do  thus. 

Had  it  been  so  hard  for  my  love  ?  but  I, 

Though  the  gods  gave  all  that  a  god  can  give, 

1  had  chosen  rather  the  gift  to  die, 
Cease,  and  be  glad  above  all  that  live. 

For  the  Loire  would  have  driven  us  down  to  the 

sea, 

And  the  sea  would  have  pitched  us  from  shoal  to 
shoal ; 

56 


LES  NOYADES 

And  I  should  have  held  you,  and  you  held  me, 
As  flesh  holds  flesh,  and  the  soul  the  soul. 

Could  I  change  you,  help  you  to  love  me,  sweet, 
Could  I  give  you  the  love  that  would  sweeten 
death, 

We  should  yield,  go  down,  locked  hands  and  feet, 
Die,  drown  together,  and  breath  catch  breath; 

But  you  would  have  felt  my  soul  in  a  kiss, 
And  known  that  once  if  I  loved  you  well; 

And  I  would  have  given  my  soul  for  this 
To  burn  for  ever  in  burning  hell. 


A   LEAVE-TAKING 

LET  us  go  hence,  my  songs;  she  will  not  hear. 
Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing-time  is  over, 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 
She  would  not  hear. 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part;  she  will  not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 
Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam;  what  help  is  here? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so, 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 
She  would  not  know. 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence;  she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 
Flowers  without  scent,  and  fruits  that  would  not 

grow, 

Saying  '  If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap.' 
All  is  reaped  now;  no  grass  is  left  to  mow; 
And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep, 
She  would  not  weep. 
58 


A  LEAVE-TAKING 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest;  she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof, 
Nor  see  love's  ways,  how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still;  it  is  enough. 
Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above, 
She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down;  she  will  not  care. 
Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air, 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foam -flowers  fair; 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 
She  would  not  care. 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence;  she  will  not  see. 

Sing  all  once  more  together;  surely  she, 

She  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were, 

Will  turn  a  little  toward  us,  sighing;  but  we, 

We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had  not 

been  there. 

Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me, 
She  would  not  see. 


ITYLUS 

SWALLOW,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow, 

How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 

A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed  ? 

0  swallow,  sister,  O  fair  swift  swallow, 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south, 
The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set  ? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I  forget  ? 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  fleet  sweet  swallow, 
Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south; 

But  I,  fulfilled  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 

1  the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  changing  swallow, 
All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done, 
60 


ITYLUS 

Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew, 
Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow, 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  soft  light  swallow, 

Though  all  things   feast  in  the   spring's  guest- 
chamber, 

How  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof  yet  ? 
For  where  thou  fliest  I  shall  not  follow, 
Till  life  forget  and  death  remember, 
Till  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 

Hast  thou  the  heart  ?  is  it  all  past  over  ? 
Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  follow. 
And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring: 

But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy  lover  ? 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  fleeting  swallow, 
My  heart  in  me  is  a  molten  ember 

And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met. 
But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I  would  follow, 
Could  I  forget  or  thou  remember, 
Couldst  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

O  sweet  stray  sister,  O  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  light  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree; 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  sea. 
61 


ITYLUS 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  sing  not  a  little  space. 

Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet  ? 
The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow, 
The  small  slain  body,  the  flowerlike  face, 
Can  I  remember  if  thou  forget  ? 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  first-begotten! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 

The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet 
Who  hath  remembered  me  f  who  hath  forgotten  f 
Thou  hast  forgotten,  O  summer  swallow, 
But  the  world  shall  end  when  I  forget. 


ANACTORIA 

rtvof  av  TV 


SAPPHO. 

MY  life  is  bitter  with  thy  love;  thine  eyes 
Blind  me,  thy  tresses  burn  me,  thy  sharp  sighs 
Divide  my  flesh  and  spirit  with  soft  sound, 
And  my  blood  strengthens,  and  my  veins  abound. 
I  pray  thee  sigh  not,  speak  not,  draw  not  breath; 
Let  life  burn  down,  and  dream  it  is  not  death. 
I  would  the  sea  had  hidden  us,  the  fire 
(Wilt  thou  fear  that,  and  fear  not  my  desire?) 
Severed  the  bones  that  bleach,  the  flesh  that  cleaves, 
And  let  our  sifted  ashes  drop  like  leaves. 
I  feel  thy  blood  against  my  blood:  my  pain 
Pains  thee,  and  lips  bruise  lips,  and  vein  stings  vein. 
Let  fruit  be  crushed  on  fruit,  let  flower  on  flower, 
Breast  kindle  breast,  and  either  burn  one  hour. 
Why  wilt  thou  follow  lesser  loves?  are  thine 
Too  weak  to  bear  these  hands  and  lips  of  mine? 
I  charge  thee  for  my  life's  sake,  O  too  sweet 
To  crush  love  with  thy  cruel  faultless  feet, 
I  charge  thee  keep  thy  lips  from  hers  or  his, 
Sweetest,  till  theirs  be  sweeter  than  my  kiss: 
Lest  I  too  lure,  a  swallow  for  a  dove, 
Erotion  or  Erinna  to  my  love. 

63 


ANACTORIA 

I  would  my  love  could  kill  thee;  I  am  satiated 
With  seeing  thee  live,  and  fain  would  have  thee 

dead. 

I  would  earth  had  thy  body  as  fruit  to  eat, 
And  no  mouth  but  some  serpent's  found  thee  sweet. 
I  would  find  grievous  ways  to  have  thee  slain, 
Intense  device,  and  superflux  of  pain; 
Vex  thee  with  amorous  agonies,  and  shake 
Life  at  thy  lips,  and  leave  it  there  to  ache; 
Strain  out  thy  soul  with  pangs  too  soft  to  kill, 
Intolerable  interludes,  and  infinite  ill; 
Relapse  and  reluctation  of  the  breath, 
Dumb  tunes  and  shuddering  semitones  of  death. 
I  am  weary  of  all  thy  words  and  soft  strange  ways, 
Of  all  love's  fiery  nights  and  all  his  days, 
And  all  the  broken  kisses  salt  as  brine 
That  shuddering  lips  make  moist  with  waterish  wine, 
And  eyes  the  bluer  for  all  those  hidden  hours 
That  pleasure  fills  with  tears  and  feeds  from  flowers, 
Fierce  at  the  heart  with  fire  that  half  comes  through, 
But  all  the  flowerlike  white   stained   round  with 

blue ; 

The  fervent  underlid,  and  that  above 
Lifted  with  laughter  or  abashed  with  love; 
Thine  amorous  girdle,  full  of  thee  and  fair, 
And  leavings  of  the  lilies  in  thine  hair. 
Yea,  all  sweet  words  of  thine  and  all  thy  ways, 
And  all  the  fruit  of  nights  and  flower  of  days, 
And  stinging  lips  wherein  the  hot  sweet  brine 
That  Love  was  born  of  burns  and  foams  like  wine, 
And  eyes  insatiable  of  amorous  hours, 
Fervent  as  fire  and  delicate  as  flowers, 

64 


ANACTORIA 

Coloured  like  night  at  heart,  but  cloven  through 
Like  night  with  flame,  dyed  round  like  night  with 

blue, 

Clothed  with  deep  eyelids  under  and  above — 
Yea,  all  thy  beauty  sickens  me  with  love; 
Thy  girdle  empty  of  thee  and  now  not  fair, 
And  ruinous  lilies  in  thy  languid  hair. 
Ah,  take  no  thought  for  Love's  sake;  shall  this  be, 
And  she  who  loves  thy  lover  not  love  thee  ? 
Sweet  soul,  sweet  mouth  of  all  that  laughs  and  lives, 
Mine  is  she,  very  mine;  and  she  forgives. 
For  I  beheld  in  sleep  the  light  that  is 
In  her  high  place  in  Paphos,  heard  the  kiss 
Of  body  and  soul  that  mix  with  eager  tears 
And  laughter  stinging  through  the  eyes  and  ears; 
Saw  Love,  as  burning  flame  from  crown  to  feet, 
Imperishable,  upon  her  storied  seat; 
Clear  eyelids  lifted  toward  the  north  and  south, 
A  mind  of  many  colours,  and  a  mouth 
Of  many  tunes  and  kisses;  and  she  bowed, 
With  all  her  subtle  face  laughing  aloud, 
Bowed  down  upon  me,   saying,   "Who  doth  thee 

wrong, 

Sappho?"  but  thou — thy  body  is  the  song, 
Thy  mouth  the  music;  thou  art  more  than  I, 
Though  my  voice  die  not  till  the  whole  world  die; 
Though,  men  that  hear  it  madden ;  though  love  weep, 
Though  nature  change,  though  shame  be  charmed 

to  sleep. 

Ah,  wilt  thou  slay  me  lest  I  kiss  thee  dead? 
Yet  the  queen  laughed  from  her  sweet  heart  and 

said: 

65 


ANACTORIA 

"Even  she  that  flies  shall  follow  for  thy  sake, 
And  she  shall  give  thee  gifts  that  would  not  take, 
Shall  kiss  that  would  not  kiss  thee"  (yea,  kiss  me) 
"When  thou  wouldst  not" — when  I  would  not  kiss 

thee! 

Ah,  more  to  me  than  all  men  as  thou  art, 
Shall  not  my  songs  assuage  her  at  the  heart  ? 
Ah,  sweet  to  me  as  life  seems  sweet  to  death, 
Why  should  her  wrath  fill  thee  with  fearful  breath  ? 
Nay,  sweet,  for  is  she  God  alone  ?  hath  she 
Made  earth  and  all  the  centuries  of  the  sea, 
Taught  the  sun  ways  to  travel,  woven  most  fine 
The  moonbeams,  shed  the  starbeams  forth  as  wine, 
Bound  with  her  myrtles,  beaten  with  her  rods, 
The  young  men  and  the  maidens  and  the  gods  ? 
Have  we  not  lips  to  love  with,  eyes  for  tears, 
And  summer  and  flower  of  women  and  of  years? 
Stars  for  the  foot  of  morning,  and  for  noon 
Sunlight,  and  exaltation  of  the  moon; 
Waters  that  answer  waters,  fields  that  wear 
Lilies,  and  languor  of  the  Lesbian  air? 
Beyond  those  flying  feet  of  fluttered  doves, 
Are  there  not  other  gods  for  other  loves? 
Yea,  though  she  scourge  thee,  sweetest,  for  my  sake, 
Blossom  not  thorns  and  flowers  not  blood  should 

break. 

Ah  that  my  lips  were  tuneless  lips,  but  pressed 
To   the    bruised    blossom    of   thy    scourged    white 

breast ! 

Ah  that  my  mouth  for  Muses'  milk  were  fed 
On  the  sweet  blood  thy  sweet  small  wounds  had 

bled! 

66 


ANACTORIA 

* 

That  with  my  tongue  I  felt  them,  and  could  taste 
The  faint  flakes  from  thy  bosom  to  the  waist! 
That  I  could  drink  thy  veins  as  wine,  and  eat 
Thy  breasts  like  honey!  that  from  face  to  feet 
Thy  body  were  abolished  and  consumed, 
And  in  my  flesh  thy  very  flesh  entombed! 
Ah,  ah,  thy  beauty!  like  a  beast  it  bites, 
Stings  like  an  adder,  like  an  arrow  smites. 
Ah  sweet,  and  sweet  again,  and  seven  times  sweet, 
The  paces  and  the  pauses  of  thy  feet! 
Ah  sweeter  than  all  sleep  or  summer  air 
The  fallen  fillets  fragrant  from  thine  hair! 
Yea,  though  their  alien  kisses  do  me  wrong, 
Sweeter  thy  lips  than  mine  with  all  their  song; 
Thy  shoulders  whiter  than  a  fleece  of  white, 
And  flower-sweet  fingers,  good  to  bruise  or  bite 
As  honeycomb  of  the  inmost  honey-cells, 
With  almond-shaped  and  roseleaf-coloured  shells 
And  blood  like  purple  blossom  at  the  tips 
Quivering;  and  pain  made  perfect  in  thy  lips 
For  my  sake  when  I  hurt  thee;  O  that  I 
Durst  crush  thee  out  of  life  with  love,  and  die, 
Die  of  thy  pain  and  my  delight,  and  be 
Mixed  with  thy  blood  and  molten  into  thee! 
Would  I  not  plague  thee  dying  overmuch  ? 
Would  I  not  hurt  thee  perfectly  ?  not  touch 
Thy  pores  of  sense  with  torture,  and  make  bright 
Thine  eyes  with  bloodlike  tears  and  grievous  light  ? 
Strike  pang  from  pang  as  note  is  struck  from  note, 
Catch  the  sob's  middle  music  in  thy  throat, 
Take  thy  limbs  living,  and  new-mould  with  these 
A  lyre  of  many  faultless  agonies  ? 

67 


ANACTORIA 

Feed  thee  with  fever  and  famine  and  fine  drouth, 

With  perfect  pangs  convulse  thy  perfect  mouth, 

Make  thy  life  shudder  in  thee  and  burn  afresh, 

And  wring  thy  very  spirit  through  the  flesh  ? 

Cruel  ?  but  love  makes  all  that  love  him  well 

As  wise  as  heaven  and  crueller  than  hell. 

Me  hath  love  made  more  bitter  toward  thee 

Than  death  toward  man;  but  were  I  made  as  he 

Who  hath  made  all  things  to  break  them  one  by  one, 

If  my  feet  trod  upon  the  stars  and  sun 

And  souls  of  men  as  his  have  alway  trod, 

God  knows  I  might  be  crueller  than  God. 

For  who  shall  change  with  prayers  or  thanksgivings 

The  mystery  of  the  cruelty  of  things  ? 

Or  say  what  God  above  all  gods  and  years 

With  offering  and  blood-sacrifice  of  tears, 

With  lamentation  from  strange  lands,  from  graves 

Where  the  snake  pastures,  from  scarred  mouths  of 

slaves, 

From  prison,  and  from  plunging  prows  of  ships 
Through  flamelike  foam  of  the  .sea's  closing  lips — 
With  th waitings  of  strange  signs,  and  wind-blown 

hair 

Of  comets,  desolating  the  dim  air, 
When  darkness  is  made  fast  with  seals  and  bars, 
And  fierce  reluctance  of  disastrous  stars, 
Eclipse,  and  sound  of  shaken  hills,  and  wings 
Darkening,  and  blind  inexpiable  things — 
With  sorrow  of  labouring  moons,  and  altering  light 
And  travail  of  the  planets  of  the  night, 
And  weeping  of  the  weary  Pleiads  seven, 
Feeds  the  mute  melancholy  lust  of  heaven? 

68 


ANACTORIA 

Is  not  his  incense  bitterness,  his  meat 
Murder?  his  hidden  face  and  iron  feet 
Hath  not  man  known,  and  felt  them  on  their  way 
Threaten  and  trample  all  things  and  every  day? 
Hath  he  not  sent  us  hunger?  who  hath  cursed 
Spirit  and  flesh  with  longing?  filled  with  thirst 
Their  lips  who  cried  unto  him?  who  bade  exceed 
The  fervid  will,  fall  short  the  feeble  deed, 
Bade  sink  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  aspire, 
Pain  animate  the  dust  of  dead  desire, 
And  life  yield  up  her  flower  to  violent  fate? 
Him  would  I  reach,  him  smite,  him  desecrate, 
Pierce  the  cold  lips  of  God  with  human  breath, 
And  mix  his  immortality  with  death. 
Why  hath  he  made  us  ?  what  had  all  we  done 
That  we  should  live  and  loathe  the  sterile  sun, 
And  with  the  moon  wax  paler  as  she  wanes, 
And  pulse  by  pulse  feel  time  grow  through  our  veins  ? 
Thee  too  the  years  shall  cover;  thou  shalt  be 
As  the  rose  born  of  one  same  blood  with  thee, 
As  a  song  sung,  as  a  word  said,  and  fall 
Flower-wise,  and  be  not  any  more  at  all, 
Nor  any  memory  of  thee  anywhere; 
For  never  Muse  has  bound  above  thine  hair 
The  high  Pierian  flower  whose  graft  outgrows 
All  summer  kinship  of  the  mortal  rose 
And  colour  of  deciduous  days,  nor  shed 
Reflex  and  flush  of  heaven  about  thine  head, 
Nor  reddened  brows  made  pale  by  floral  grief 
With  splendid  shadow  from  that  lordlier  leaf. 
Yea,  thou  shalt  be  forgotten  like  spilt  wine, 
Except  these  kisses  of  my  lips  on  thine 

69 


ANACTORlA 

Brand  them  with  immortality;  but  me — 
Men  shall  not  see  bright  fire  nor  hear  the  sea, 
Nor  mix  their  hearts  with  music,  nor  behold 
Cast  forth  of  heaven,  with  feet  of  awful  gold 
And  plumeless  wings  that  make  the  bright  air  blind, 
Lightning,  with  thunder  for  a  hound  behind 
Hunting  through  fields  unfurrowed  and  unsown, 
But  in  the  light  and  laughter,  in  the  moan 
And  music,  and  in  grasp  of  lip  and  hand 
And  shudder  of  water  that  makes  felt  on  land 
The  immeasurable  tremor  of  all  the  sea, 
Memories  shall  mix  and  metaphors  of  me. 
Like  me  shall  be  the  shuddering  calm  of  night, 
When  all  the  winds  of  the  world  for  pure  delight 
Close  lips  that  quiver  and  fold  up  wings  that  ache 
When  nightingales  are  louder  for  love's  sake, 
And  leaves  tremble  like  lute-strings  or  like  fire; 
Like  me  the  one  star  swooning  with  desire 
Even  at  the  cold  lips  of  the  sleepless  moon, 
As  I  at  thine;  like  me  the  waste  white  noon, 
Burnt  through  with  barren  sunlight;  and  like  me 
The  land-stream  and  the  tide-stream  in  the  sea. 
I  am  sick  with  time  as  these  with  ebb  and  flow, 
And  by  the  yearning  in  my  veins  I  know 
The  yearning  sound  of  waters;  and  mine  eyes 
Burn  as  that  beamless  fire  which  fills  the  skies 
With  troubled  stars  and  travailing  things  of  flame; 
And  in  my  heart  the  grief  consuming  them 
Labours,  and  in  my  veins  the  thirst  of  these, 
And  all  the  summer  travail  of  the  trees 
And  all  the  winter  sickness;  and  the  earth, 
Filled  full  with  deadly  works  of  death  and  birth, 

70 


ANACTORIA 

Sore  spent  with  hungry  lusts  of  birth  and  death, 
Has  pain  like  mine  in  her  divided  breath; 
Her  spring  of  leaves  is  barren,  and  her  fruit 
Ashes;  her  boughs  are  burdened,  and  her  root 
Fibrous  and  gnarled  with  poison;  underneath 
Serpents  have  gnawn  it  through  with  tortuous  teeth 
Made  sharp  upon  the  bones  of  all  the  dead, 
And  wild  birds  rend  her  branches  overhead. 
These,  woven  as  raiment  for  his  word  and  thought, 
These  hath  God  made,  and  me  as  these,  and  wrought 
Song,  and  hath  lit  it  at  my  lips;  and  me 
Earth  shall  not  gather  though  she  feed  on  thee. 
As  a  shed  tear  shalt  thou  be  shed;  but  I — 
Lo,  earth  may  labour,  men  live  long  and  die, 
Years  change  and  stars,  and  the  high  God  devise 
New  things,  and  old  things  wane  before  his  eyes 
Who  wields  and  wrecks  them,  being  more  strong 

than  they — 

But,  having  made  me,  me  he  shall  not  slay. 
Nor  slay  nor  satiate,  like  those  herds  of  his 
Who  laugh  and  live  a  little,  and  their  kiss 
Contents  them,  and  their  loves  are  swift  and  sweet, 
And  sure  death  grasps  and  gains  them  with  slow 

feet, 

Love  they  or  hate  they,  strive  or  bow  their  knees — 
And  all  these  end;  he  hath  his  will  of  these. 
Yea,  but  albeit  he  slay  me,  hating  me — 
Albeit  he  hide  me  in  the  deep  dear  sea 
And  cover  me  with  cool  wan  foam,  and  ease 
This  soul  of  mine  as  any  soul  of  these, 
And  give  me  water  and  great  sweet  waves,  and  make 
The  very  sea's  name  lordlier  for  my  sake, 


ANACTORIA 

The  whole  sea  sweeter — albeit  I  die  indeed 
And  hide  myself  and  sleep  and  no  man  heed, 
Of  me  the  high  God  hath  not  all  his  will. 
Blossom  of  branches,  and  on  each  high  hill 
Clear  air  and  wind,  and  under  in  clamorous  vales 
Fierce  noises  of  the  fiery  nightingales, 
Buds  burning  in  the  sudden  spring  like  fire, 
The  wan  washed  sand  and  the  waves'  vain  desire, 
Sails  seen  like  blown  white  flowers  at  sea,  and  words 
That  bring  tears  swiftest,  and  long  notes  of  birds 
Violently  singing  till  the  whole  world  sings — 
I  Sappho  shall  be  one  with  all  these  things, 
With  all  high  things  for  ever;  and  my  face 
Seen  once,  my  songs  once  heard  in  a  strange  place, 
Cleave  to  men's  lives,  and  waste  the  days  thereof 
With  gladness  and  much  sadness  and  long  love. 
Yea,  they  shall  say,  earth's  womb  has  borne  in  vain 
New  things,  and  never  this  best  thing  again; 
Borne  days  and  men,  borne  fruits  and  wars  and 

wine, 

Seasons  and  songs,  but  no  song  more  like  mine. 
And  they  shall  know  me  as  ye  who  have  known  me 

here, 

Last  year  when  I  loved  Atthis,  and  this  year 
When  I  love  thee;  and  they  shall  praise  me,  and  say 
"She  hath  all  time  as  all  we  have  our  day, 
Shall  she  not  live  and  have  her  will" — even  I? 
Yea,  though  thou  diest,  I  say  I  shall  not  die. 
For  these  shall  give  me  of  their  souls,  shall  give 
Life,  and  the  days  and  loves  wherewith  I  live, 
Shall  quicken  me  with  loving,  fill  with  breath, 
Save  me  and  serve  me,  strive  for  me  with  death. 

72 


ANACTORIA 

Alas,  that  neither  moon  nor  snow  nor  dew 

Nor  all  cold  things  can  purge  me  wholly  through, 

Assuage  me  nor  allay  me  nor  appease, 

Till  supreme  sleep  shall  bring  me  bloodless  ease; 

Till  time  wax  faint  in  all  his  periods; 

Till  fate  undo  the  bondage  of  the  gods, 

And  lay,  to  slake  and  satiate  me  all  through, 

Lotus  and  Lethe  on  my  lips  like  dew, 

And  shed  around  and  over  and  under  me 

Thick  darkness  and  the  insuperable  sea. 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

(AFTER  THE  PROCLAMATION  IN  ROME  OF  THE  CHRIS- 
TIAN FAITH) 

Vicisti,  Galileee. 

I  HAVE  lived  long  enough,  having  seen  one  thing, 

that  love  hath  an  end; 
Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now 

and  befriend. 
Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  morrow,  the 

seasons  that  laugh  or  that  weep; 
For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow;  but  thou,  Proserpina, 

sleep. 
Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet  the  feet  of 

the  dove; 
But  a  goodlier  gift  is  thine  than  foam  of  the  grapes 

or  love. 
Yea,  is  not  even  Apollo,  with  hair  and  harpstring  of 

gold, 

A  bitter  God  to  follow,  a  beautiful  God  to  behold  ? 
I  am  sick  of  singing:  the  bays  burn  deep  and  chafe: 

I  am  fain 
To  rest  a  little  from  praise  and  grievous  pleasure 

and  pain. 

74 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

For  the  Gods  we  know  not  of,  who  give  us  our  daily 

breath, 
We  know  they  are  cruel  as  love  or  life,  and  lovely  as 

death. 

0  Gods  dethroned  and  deceased,  cast  forth,  wiped 

out  in  a  day! 
From  your  wrath  is  the  world  released,  redeemed 

from  your  chains,  men  say. 
New  Gods  are  crowned  in  the  city;  their  flowers 

have  broken  your  rods; 

They  are  merciful,  clothed  with  pity,  the  young  com- 
passionate Gods. 
But  for  me  their  new  device  is  barren,  the  days  are 

bare; 
Things  long  past  over  suffice,  and  men  forgotten 

that  were. 
Time  and  the  Gods  are  at  strife;  ye  dwell  in  the 

midst  thereof, 
Draining  a  little  life  from  the  barren  breasts  of 

love. 

1  say  to  you,  cease,  take  rest;  yea,  I  say  to  you  all, 

be  at  peace, 
Till  the  bitter  milk  of  her  breast  and  the  barren 

bosom  shall  cease. 
Wilt  thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean?  but  these  thou 

shalt  not  take, 
The  laurel,  the  palms  and  the  paean,  the  breasts  of 

the  nymphs  in  the  brake; 
Breasts  more  soft  than  a  dove's,  that  tremble  with 

tenderer  breath; 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  joy  before 

death ; 

»  75 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as  a  single 

lyre, 
Dropped  and  deep  in  the  flowers,  with  strings  that 

flicker  like  fire. 
More  than  these  wilt  thou  give,  things  fairer  than  all 

these  things? 
Nay,  for  a  little  we  live,  and    life  hath  mutable 

wings. 
A  little  while  and  we  die ;  shall  life  not  thrive  as  it 

may  ? 
For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice,  outliving  his 

day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  man  hath 

enough  of  his  tears: 
Why  should  he  labour,   and  bring  fresh  grief  to 

blacken  his  years? 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean;  the  world  has 

grown  grey  from  thy  breath; 
We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed  on  the 

fullness  of  death. 
Laurel  is  green  for  a  season,  and  love  is  sweet  for  a 

day; 

But  love  grows  bitter  with  treason,  and  laurel  out- 
lives not  May. 
Sleep,  shall  we  sleep  after  all  ?  for  the  world  is  not 

sweet  in  the  end; 
For  the  old  faiths  loosen  and  fall,  the  new  years  ruin 

and  rend. 
Fate  is  a  sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul  is  a  rock 

that  abides; 
But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and  her  face 

with  the  foam  of  the  tides. 
76 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

O  lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in,  the  leavings  of 
racks  and  rods! 

0  ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead  limbs  of  gibbeted 

Gods! 

Though  all  men  abase  them  before  you  in  spirit,  and 
all  knees  bend, 

1  kneel  not  neither  adore  you,  but  standing,  look  to 

the  end. 
All    delicate    days    and    pleasant,    all    spirits    and 

sorrows  are  cast 
Far  out  with  the  foam  of  the  present  that  sweeps  to 

the  surf  of  the  past: 
Where  beyond  the  extreme  sea-wall,  and  between 

the  remote  sea-gates, 
Waste  water  washes,  and  tall  ships  founder,  and 

deep  death  waits: 
Where,  mighty  with  deepening  sides,  clad  about 

with  the  seas  as  with  wings, 

And  impelled  of  invisible  tides,  and  fulfilled  of  un- 
speakable things, 
White-eyed  and  poisonous-finned,  shark-toothed  and 

serpentine-curled , 
Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind  of  the  future,  the 

wave  of  the  world. 
The  depths  stand  naked  in  sunder  behind  it,  the 

storms  flee  away; 
In  the  hollow  before  it  the  thunder  is  taken  and 

snared  as  a  prey; 
In  its  sides  is  the  north-wind  bound ;  and  its  salt  is 

of  all  men's  tears; 
With  light  of  ruin,  and  sound  of  changes,  and  pulse 

of  years: 

77 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

With  travail  of  day  after  day,  and  with  trouble  of 

hour  upon  hour; 
And  bitter  as  blood  is  the  spray ;  and  the  crests  are 

as  fangs  that  devour: 
And  its  vapour  and  storm  of  its  steam  as  the  sighing 

of  spirits  to  be; 
And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a  dream ;  and  its  depth 

as  the  roots  of  the  sea: 
And  the  height  of  its  heads  as  the  height  of  the 

utmost  stars  of  the  air: 
And  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might  thereof 

tremble,  and  time  is  made  bare. 
Will   ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins,   will   ye 

chasten  the  high  sea  with  rods  ? 
Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains,  who  is 

older  than  all  ye  Gods  ? 
All  ye  as  a  wind  shall  go  by,  as  a  fire  shall  ye  pass 

and  be  past; 
Ye  are  Gods,  and  behold,  ye  "hall  die,  and  the  waves 

be  upon  you  at  last. 
In  the  darkness  of  time,  in  the  deeps  of  the  }rears, 

in  the  changes  of  things, 
Ye  shall  sleep  as  a  slain  man  sleeps,  and  the  world 

shall  forget  you  for  kings. 
Though  the  feet  of  thine  high  priests  tread  where  thy 

lords  and  our  forefathers  trod, 
Though  these  that  were  Gods  are  dead,  and  thou 

being  dead  art  a  God, 
Though    before    thee    the    throned    Cytherean    be 

fallen,  and  hidden  her  head, 
Yet  thy  kingd9tn   shall  pass,   Galilean,  thy  dead 

shall  go  down  to  thee  dead. 
78 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

Of  the  maiden  thy  mother  men  sing  as  a  goddess 

with  grace  clad  around; 
Thou  art  throned  where  another  was  king;  where 

another  was  queen  she  is  crowned. 
Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another:  but  now  she  is 

queen,  say  these. 
Not   as   thine,   not   as  thine   was    our   mother,   a 

blossom  of  flowering  seas, 
Clothed   round   with   the    world's   desire   as   with 

raiment  and  fair  as  the  foam, 
And  fleeter  than  kindled  fire,  and  a  goddess  and 

mother  of  Rome. 
For  thine  came  pale  and  a  maiden,  and  sister  to 

sorrow;  but  ours, 
Her  deep  hair  heavily  laden  with  odour  and  colour 

of  flowers, 

White  rose  of  the  rose-white  water,  a  silver  splen- 
dour, a  flame, 
Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her,  and  earth 

grew  sweet  with  her  name. 
For  thine  came  weeping,  a  slave  among  slaves,  and 

rejected;  but  she 

Came  flushed  from  the  full-flushed  wave,  and  im- 
perial, her  foot  on  the  sea. 
And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the  winds  and 

the  viewless  ways, 
And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the  sea-blue 

stream  of  the  bays. 
Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords,  by  what  token  ?  we  wist  that 

ye  should  not  fall. 
Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken;  and  one  more 

fair  than  ye  all. 

79 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

But  I  turn  to  her  still,  having  seen  she  shall  surely 

abide  in  the  end; 
Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now  and 

befriend. 

0  daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  her  crown  and 

blossom  of  birth, 

1  am  also,  I  also,  thy  brother;  I  go  as  I  came  unto 

earth. 
In  the  night  where  thine  eyes  are  as  moons  are  in 

heaven,  the  night  where  thou  art, 
Where  the  silence  is  more  than  all  tunes,  where 
,         sleep  overflows  from  the  heart, 
Where  the  poppies  are  sweet   as  the  rose  in  our 

world,  and  the  red  rose  is  white, 
And  the  wind  falls  faint  as  it  blows  with  the  fume  of 

the  flowers  of  the  night, 
And  the  murmur  of  spirits  that  sleep  in  the  shadow 

of  Gods  from  afar 
Grows  dim  in  thine  ears  and  deep  as  the  deep  dim 

soul  of  a  star, 
In  the  sweet  low  light  of  thy  face,  under  heavens 

untrod  by  the  sun, 
Let  my  soul  with  their  souls  find  place,  and  forget 

what  is  done  and  undone. 
Thou  art  more  than  the  Gods  who  number  the  days 

of  our  temporal  breath ; 
For   these    give    labour    and    slumber;    but    thou, 

Proserpina,  death. 
Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I  abide  for  a  season  in 

silence.     I  know 
I  shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep  as  they 

sleep;  even  so. 

80 


HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 

For  the  glass  of  the  years  is  brittle  wherein  we  gaze 

for  a  span; 
A  little  soul  for  a  little  bears  up  this  corpse  which  is 

man.1 
So  long  I  endure,  no  longer;  and  laugh  not  again, 

neither  weep. 
For  there  is  no  God  found  stronger  than  death ;  and 

death  is  a  sleep. 

lifrvxdpiov  cl  jBaaru&v  vexpov. 

EPICTETUS. 


ILICET 

THERE  is  an  end  of  joy  and  sorrow; 
Peace  all  day  long,  all  night,  all  morrow, 

But  never  a  time  to  laugh  or  weep. 
The  end  is  come  of  pleasant  places, 
The  end  of  tender  words  and  faces, 

The  end  of  all,  the  poppied  sleep. 

No  place  for  sound  within  their  hearing, 
No  room  to  hope,  no  time  for  fearing, 

No  lips  to  laugh,  no  lids  for  tears. 
The  old  years  have  run  out  all  their  measure; 
No  chance  of  pain,  no  chance  of  pleasure, 

No  fragment  of  the  broken  years. 

Outside  of  all  the  worlds  and  ages, 
There  where  the  fool  is  as  the  sage  is, 

There  where  the  slayer  is  clean  of  blood, 
No  end,  no  passage,  no  beginning, 
There  where  the  sinner  leaves  off  sinning, 

There  where  the  good  man  is  not  good. 

There  is  not  one  thing  with  another, 
But  Evil  saith  to  Good:  My  brother, 
My  brother,  I  am  one  with  thee: 
82 


ILICET 

They  shall  not  strive  nor  cry  for  ever: 
No  man  shall  choose  between  them:  never 
Shall  this  thing  end  and  that  thing  be. 

Wind  wherein  seas  and  stars  are  shaken 
Shall  shake  them,  and  they  shall  not  waken; 

None  that  has  lain  down  shall  arise; 
The  stones  are  sealed  across  their  places; 
One  shadow  is  shed  on  all  their  faces, 

One  blindness  cast  on  all  their  eyes. 

Sleep,  is  it  sleep  perchance  that  covers 
Each  face,  as  each  face  were  his  lover's? 

Farewell;  as  men  that  sleep  fare  well. 
The  grave's  mouth  laughs  unto  derision 
Desire  and  dread  and  dream  and  vision, 

Delight  of  heaven  and  sorrow  of  hell. 

No  soul  shall  tell  nor  lip  shall  number 
The  names  and  tribes  of  you  that  slumber; 

No  memory,  no  memorial. 
"Thou    knowest"  —  who    shall    say    thou    know- 

est? 
There  is  none  highest  and  none  lowest : 

An  end,  an  end,  an  end  of  all. 

Good  night,  good  sleep,  good  rest  from  sorrow 
To  these  that  shall  not  have  good  morrow; 

The  gods  be  gentle  to  all  these. 
Nay,  if  death  be  not,  how  shall  they  be? 
Nay,  is  there  help  in  heaven  ?  it  may  be 

All  things  and  lords  of  things  shall  cease. 
83 


ILICET 

The  stooped  urn,  filling,  dips  and  flashes; 
The  bronzed  brims  are  deep  in  ashes; 

The  pale  old  lips  of  death  are  fed. 
Shall  this  dust  gather  flesh  hereafter? 
Shall  one  shed  tears  or  fall  to  laughter, 

At  sight  of  all  these  poor  old  dead? 

Nay,  as  thou  wilt ;  these  know  not  of  it ; 
Thine  eyes'  strong  weeping  shall  not  profit, 

Thy  laughter  shall  not  give  thee  ease; 
Cry  aloud,  spare  not,  cease  not  crying, 
Sigh,  till  thou  cleave  thy  sides  with  sighing, 

Thou  shalt  not  raise  up  one  of  these. 

Burnt  spices  flash,  and  burnt  wine  hisses, 
The  breathing  flame's  mouth  curls  and  kisses 

The  small  dried  rows  of  frankincense; 
All  round  the  sad  red  blossoms  smoulder, 
Flowers  coloured  like  the  fire,  but  colder, 

In  sign  of  sweet  things  taken  hence; 

Yea,  for  their  sake  and  in  death's  favour 
Things  of  sweet  shape  and  of  sweet  savour 

We  yield  them,  spice  and  flower  and  wine; 
Yea,  costlier  things  than  wine  or  spices, 
Whereof  none  knoweth  how  great  the  price  is, 

And  fruit  that  comes  not  of  the  vine. 

From    boy's    pierced    throat    and    girl's    pierced 

bosom 

Drips,  reddening  round  the  blood-red  blossom, 
The  slow  delicious  bright  soft  blood, 
84 


ILICET 

Bathing  the  spices  and  the  pyre, 
Bathing  the  flowers  and  fallen  fire, 
Bathing  the  blossom  by  the  bud. 

Roses  whose  lips  the  flame  has  deadened 
Drink  till  the  lapping  leaves  are  reddened 

And  warm  wet  inner  petals  weep; 
The  flower  whereof  sick  sleep  gets  leisure, 
Barren  of  balm  and  purple  pleasure, 

Fumes  with  no  native  steam  of  sleep. 

Why  will  ye  weep  ?  what  do  ye  weeping  ? 
For  waking  folk  and  people  sleeping, 

And  sands  that  fill  and  sands  that  fall, 
The  days  rose-red,  the  poppied  hours, 
Blood,  wine,  and  spice  and  fire  and  flowers, 

There  is  one  end  of  one  and  all. 

Shall  such  an  one  lend  love  or  borrow? 
Shall  these  be  sorry  for  thy  sorrow  ? 

Shall  these  give  thanks  for  words  or  breath  ? 
Their  hate  is  as  their  loving-kindness; 
The  frontlet  of  their  brows  is  blindness. 

The  armlet  of  their  arms  is  death. 

Lo,  for  no  noise  or  light  of  thunder 

Shall  these  grave-clothes  be  rent  in  sunder; 

He  that  hath  taken,  shall  he  give? 
He  hath  rent  them:  shall  he  bind  together? 
He  hath  bound  them:   shall  he  break  the  teth- 
er? 

He  hath  slain  them :  shall  he  bid  them  live  ? 

85 


ILICET 

A  little  sorrow,  a  little  pleasure, 

Fate  metes  us  from  the  dusty  measure 

That  holds  the  date  of  all  of  us; 
We  are  born  with  travail  and  strong  crying, 
And  from  the  birth-day  to  the  dying 

The  likeness  of  our  life  is  thus. 

One  girds  himself  to  serve  another, 
Whose  father  was  the  dust,  whose  mother 

The  little  dead  red  worm  therein; 
They  find  no  fruit  of  things  they  cherish; 
The  goodness  of  a  man  shall  perish, 

It  shall  be  one  tiling  with  his  sin. 

In  deep  wet  ways  by  grey  old  gardens 

Fed  with  sharp  spring  the  sweet  fruit  hardens; 

They  know  not  what  fruits  wane  or  grow; 
Red  summer  burns  to  the  utmost  ember; 
They  know  not,  neither  can  remember, 

The  old  years  and  flowers  they  used  to  know. 

Ah,  for  their  sakes,  so  trapped  and  taken, 
For  theirs,  forgotten  and  forsaken, 

Watch,  sleep  not,  gird  thyself  with  prayer. 
Nay,  where  the  heart  of  wrath  is  broken, 
Where  long  love  ends  as  a  thing  spoken, 

How  shall  thy  crying  enter  there? 

Though  the  iron  sides  of  the  old  world  falter, 
The  likeness  of  them  shall  not  alter 
For  all  the  rumour  of  periods, 
86 


ILICET 

The  stars  and  seasons  that  come  after, 
The  tears  of  latter  men,  the  laughter 
Of  the  old  unalterable  gods. 

Far  up  above  the  years  and  nations, 

The  high  gods,  clothed  and  crowned  with  patience, 

Endure  through  days  of  deathlike  date; 
They  bear  the  witness  of  things  hidden; 
Before  their  eyes  all  life  stands  chidden, 

As  they  before  the  eyes  of  Fate. 

Not  for  their  love  shall  Fate  retire, 
Nor  they  relent  for  our  desire, 

Nor  the  graves  open  for  their  call. 
The  end  is  more  than  joy  and  anguish, 
Than  lives  that  laugh  and  lives  that  languish, 

The  poppied  sleep,  the  end  of  all. 


HERMAPHRODITUS 


LIFT  up  thy  lips,  turn  round,  look  back  for  love, 

Blind  love  that  comes  by  night  and  casts  out  rest, 

Of  all  things  tired  thy  lips  look  weariest, 
Save  the  long  smile  that  they  are  wearied  of. 
Ah  sweet,  albeit  no  love  be  sweet  enough, 

Choose  of  two  loves  and  cleave  unto  the  best; 

Two  loves  at  either  blossom  of  thy  breast 
Strive  until  one  be  under  and  one  above. 
Their  breath  is  fire  upon  the  amorous  air, 

Fire  in  thine  eyes  and  where  thy  lips  suspire: 
And  whosoever  hath  seen  thee,  being  so  fair, 

Two  things  turn  all  his  life  and  blood  to  fire; 
A  strong  desire  begot  on  great  despair, 

A  great  despair  cast  out  by  strong  desire. 

ii 

Where  between  sleep  and  life  some  brief  space  is, 
With  love  like  gold  bound  round  about  the  head, 
Sex  to  sweet  sex  with  lips  and  limbs  is  wed, 

Turning  the  fruitful  feud  of  hers  and  his 

To  the  waste  wedlock  of  a  sterile  kiss; 

Yet  from  them  something  like  as  fire  is  shed 
That  shall  not  be  assuaged  till  death  be  dead, 

Though  neither  life  nor  sleep  can  find  out  this, 

88 


HERMAPHRODITUS 

Love  made  himself  of  flesh  that  perisheth 
A  pleasure-house  for  all  the  loves  his  kin; 

But  on  the  one  side  sat  a  man  like  death, 
And  on  the  other  a  woman  sat  like  sin. 

So  with  veiled  eyes  and  sobs  between  his  breath 
Love  turned  himself  and  would  not  enter  in. 

in 

Love  is  it  love  or  sleep  or  shadow  or  light 

That  lies  between  thine  eyelids  and  thine  eyes? 

Like  a  flower  laid  upon  a  flower  it  lies, 
Or  like  the  night's  dew  laid  upon  the  night. 
Love  stands  upon  thy  left  hand  and  thy  right, 

Yet  by  no  sunset  and  by  no  moonrise 

Shall    make    thee    man    and    ease    a   woman's 

sighs, 

Or  make  thee  woman  for  a  man's  delight. 
To  what  strange  end  hath  some  strange  god  made 
fair 

The  double  blossom  of  two  fruitless  flowers? 
Hid  love  in  all  the  folds  of  all  thy  hair, 

Fed  thee  on  summers,  watered  thee  with  show- 
ers, 
Given  all  the  gold  that  all  the  seasons  wear 

To  thee  that  art  a  thing  of  barren  hours? 

IV 

Yea,  love,  I  see;  it  is  not  love  but  fear. 

Nay,  sweet,  it  is  not  fear  but  love,  I  know; 

Or  wherefore  should  thy  body's  blossom  blow 
So  sweetly,  or  thine  eyelids  leave  so  clear 
Thy  gracious  eyes  that  never  made  a  tear — 

89 


HERMAPHRODITUS 

Though  for  their  love  our  tears  like  blood  should 

flow, 
Though  love  and  life  and  death  should  come  and 

go. 

So  dreadful,  so  desirable,  so  dear? 

Yea,  sweet,  I  know;  I  saw  in  what  swift  wise 
Beneath  the  woman's  and  the  water's  kiss 
Thy  moist  limbs  melted  into  Salmacis, 

And  the  large  light  turned  tender  in  thine  eyes, 

And  all  thy  boy's  breath  softened  into  sighs; 
But  Love  being  blind,  how  should  he  know  of 
this? 

Au  Musee  du  Louvre,  Mars  1863. 


FRAGOLETTA 

0  LOVE!  what  shall  be  said  of  thee? 
The  son  of  grief  begot  by  joy? 
Being  sightless,  wilt  thou  see  ? 
Being  sexless,  wilt  thou  be 
Maiden  or  boy? 

1  dreamed  of  strange  lips  yesterday 

And  cheeks  wherein  the  ambiguous  blood 
Was  like  a  rose's — yea, 
A  rose's  when  it  lay 
Within  the  bud. 

What  fields  have  bred  thee,  or  what  groves 
Concealed  thee,  O  mysterious  flower, 

0  double  rose  of  Love's, 
With  leaves  that  lure  the  doves 
From  bud  to  bower? 

1  dare  not  kiss  it,  lest  my  lip 

Press  harder  than  an  indrawn  breath, 
And  all  the  sweet  life  slip 
Forth,  and  the  sweet  leaves  drip, 
Bloodlike,  in  death. 

9  91 


FRAGOLETTA 

O  sole  desire  of  my  delight! 
O  sole  delight  of  my  desire! 
Mine  eyelids  and  eyesight 
Feed  on  thee  day  and  night 
Like  lips  of  fire. 

Lean  back  thy  throat  of  carven  pearl, 
Let  thy  mouth  murmur  like  the  dove's; 
Say,  Venus  hath  no  girl, 
No  front  of  female  curl, 
Among  her  Loves. 

Thy  sweet  low  bosom,  thy  close  hair, 
Thy  strait  soft  flanks  and  slenderer  feet, 
Thy  virginal  strange  air, 
Are  these  not  over  fair 
For  Love  to  greet? 

How  should  he  greet  thee  ?  what  new  name, 
Fit  to  move  all  men's  hearts,  could  move 
Thee,  deaf  to  love  or  shame, 
Love's  sister,  by  the  same 
Mother  as  Love? 

Ah  sweet,  the  maiden's  mouth  is  cold. 
Her  breast-blossoms  are  simply  red, 
Her  hair  mere  brown  or  gold, 
Fold  over  simple  fold 
Binding  her  head. 

Thy  mouth  is  made  of  fire  and  wine, 
Thy  barren  bosom  takes  my  kiss 
92 


FRAGOLETTA 

And  turns  my  soul  to  thine 
And  turns  thy  lip  to  mine, 
And  mine  it  is. 

Thou  hast  a  serpent  in  thine  hair, 
In  all  the  curls  that  close  and  cling; 
And  ah,  thy  breast-flower! 
Ah  love,  thy  mouth  too  fair 
To  kiss  and  sting! 

Cleave  to  me,  love  me,  kiss  mine  eyes, 
Satiate  thy  lips  with  loving  me; 
Nay,  for  thou  shalt  not  rise; 
Lie  still  as  Love  that  dies 
For  love  of  thee. 

Mine  arms  are  close  about  thine  head, 
My  lips  are  fervent  on  thy  face, 
And  where  my  kiss  hath  fed 
Thy  flower-like  blood  leaps  red 
To  the  kissed  place. 

O  bitterness  of  things  too  sweet! 
O  broken  singing  of  the  dove! 
Love's  wings  are  over  fleet, 
And  like  the  panther's  feet 
The  feet  of  Love. 


RONDEL 

THESE  many  years  since  we  began  to  be, 

What  have  the  gods  done  with  us?  what  with  me, 

What  with  my  love  ?  they  have  shown  me  fates  and 

fears, 

Harsh  springs,  and  fountains  bitterer  than  the  sea, 
Grief  a  fixed  star,  and  joy  a  vane  that  veers, 
These  many  years. 

With  her,  my  love,  with  her  have  they  done  well? 
But  who  shall  answer  for  her?  who  shall  tell 
Sweet  things  or  sad,  such  things  as  no  man  hears? 
May  no  tears  fall,  if  no  tears  ever  fell, 
From  eyes  more  dear  to  me  than  starriest  spheres 
These  many  years! 

But  if  tears  ever  touched,  for  any  grief, 

Those  eyelids  folded  like  a  white-rose  leaf, 

Deep    double   shells   wherethrough   the   eye-flower 

peers, 

Let  them  weep  once  more  only,  sweet  and  brief, 
Brief  tears  and  bright,  for  one  who  gave  her  tears 
These  many  years. 


SATIA   TE  SANGUINE 

IF  you  loved  me  ever  so  little, 
I  could  bear  the  bonds  that  gall, 

I  could  dream  the  bonds  were  brittle; 
You  do  not  love  me  at  all. 

O  beautiful  lips,  O  bosom 

More  white  than  the  moon's  and  warm, 
A  sterile,  a  ruinous  blossom 

Is  blown  your  way  in  a  storm. 

As  the  lost  white  feverish  limbs 
Of  the  Lesbian  Sappho,  adrift 

In  foam  where  the  sea-weed  swims, 
Swam  loose  for  the  streams  to  lift, 

My  heart  swims  blind  in  a  sea 
That  stuns  me;  swims  to  and  fro, 

And  gathers  to  windward  and  lee 

Lamentation,  and  mourning,  and  woe. 

A  broken,  an  emptied  boat, 
Sea  saps  it,  winds  blow  apart, 

Sick  and  adrift  and  afloat, 
The  barren  waif  of  a  heart. 
95 


SATIA  TE  SANGUINE 

Where,  when  the  gods  would  be  cruel, 
Do  they  go  for  a  torture?  where 

Plant  thorns,  set  pain  like  a  jewel? 
Ah,  not  in  the  flesh,  not  there! 

The  racks  of  earth  and  the  rods 
Are  weak  as  foam  on  the  sands; 

In  the  heart  is  the  prey  for  gods, 
Who  crucify  hearts,  not  hands. 

Mere  pangs  corrode  and  consume, 
Dead  when  life  dies  in  the  brain; 

In  the  infinite  spirit  is  room 

For  the  pulse  of  an  infinite  pain. 

I  wish  you  were  dead,  my  dear; 

I  would  give  you,  had  I  to  give, 
Some  death  too  bitter  to  fear; 

It  is  better  to  die  than  live. 

I  wish  you  were  stricken  of  thunder 
And  burnt  with  a  bright  flame  through, 

Consumed  and  cloven  in  sunder, 
I  dead  at  your  feet  like  you. 

If  I  could  but  know  after  all, 

I  might  cease  to  hunger  and  ache, 

Though  your  heart  were  ever  so  small, 
If  it  were  not  a  stone  or  a  snake. 

You  are  crueller,  you  that  we  love, 
Than  hatred,  hunger,  or  death; 
96 


SATIA  TE  SANGUINE 

You  have  eyes  and  breasts  like  a  dove, 
And  you  kill  men's  hearts  with  a  breath. 

As  plague  in  a  poisonous  city 
Insults  and  exults  on  her  dead, 

So  you,  when  pallid  for  pity 

Comes  love,  and  fawns  to  be  fed. 

As  a  tame  beast  writhes  and  wheedles, 
He  fawns  to  be  fed  with  wiles; 

You  carve  him  a  cross  of  needles, 
And  whet  them  sharp  as  your  smiles. 

He  is  patient  of  thorn  and  whip, 
He  is  dumb  under  axe  or  dart; 

You  suck  with  a  sleepy  red  lip 
The  wet  red  wounds  in  his  heart. 

You  thrill  as  his  pulses  dwindle, 

You  brighten  and  warm  as  he  bleeds, 

With  insatiable  eyes  that  kindle 
And  insatiable  mouth  that  feeds. 

Your  hands  nailed  love  to  the  tree, 

You  stript  him,  scourged  him  with  rods, 

And  drowned  him  deep  in  the  sea 
That  hides  the  dead  and  their  gods. 

And  for  all  this,  die  will  he  not; 

There  is  no  man  sees  him  but  I; 
You  came  and  went  and  forgot ; 

I  hope  he  will  some  day  die. 
97 


A  LITANY 

h 


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irpb  WKTbf  tnrii  VVKTU^  £?ere,  K.T.%. 

Anth.  Sac. 


FIRST    ANTIPHONE 

ALL  the  bright  lights  of  heaven 

I  will  make  dark  over  thee; 
One  night  shall  be  as  seven 

That  its  skirts  may  cover  thee; 
I  will  send  on  thy  strong  men  a  sword, 

On  thy  remnant  a  rod; 
Ye  shall  know  that  I  am  the  Lord, 

Saith  the  Lord  God. 

SECOND    ANTIPHONE 

All  the  bright  lights  of  heaven 

Thou  hast  made  dark  over  us; 
One  night  has  been  as  seven 

That  its  skirt  might  cover  us; 
Thou  hast  sent  on  our  strong  men  a  sword, 

On  our  remnant  a  rod; 
We  know  that  thou  art  the  Lord, 

O  Lord  our  God. 
98 


A  LITANY 

THIRD    ANTIPHONE 

As  the  tresses  and  wings  of  the  wind 

Are  scattered  and  shaken, 
I  will  scatter  all  them  that  have  sinned, 

There  shall  none  be  taken; 
As  a  sower  that  scattereth  seed, 

So  will  I  scatter  them; 
As  one  breaketh  and  shattereth  a  reed, 

I  will  break  and  shatter  them. 

FOURTH    ANTIPHONE 

As  the  wings  and  the  locks  of  the  wind 

Are  scattered  and  shaken, 
Thou  hast  scattered  all  them  that  have  sinned, 

There  was  no  man  taken; 
As  a  sower  that  scattereth  seed, 

So  hast  thou  scattered  us; 
As  one  breaketh  and  shattereth  a  reed, 

Thou  hast  broken  and  shattered  us. 

FIFTH    ANTIPHONE 

From  all  thy  lovers  that  love  thee 

I  God  will  sunder  thee; 
I  will  make  darkness  above  thee, 

And  thick  darkness  under  thee; 
Before  me  goeth  a  light, 

Behind  me  a  sword; 
Shall  a  remnant  find  grace  in  my  sight? 

I  am  the  Lord. 

99 


A  LITANY 

SIXTH    ANTIPHONE 

From  all  our  lovers  that  love  us 

Thou  God  didst  sunder  us; 
Thou  madest  darkness  above  us, 

And  thick  darkness  under  us; 
Thou  hast  kindled  thy  wrath  for  a  light, 

And  made  ready  thy  sword; 
Let  a  remnant  find  grace  in  thy  sight, 

We  beseech  thee,  O  Lord. 


SEVENTH    ANTIPHONE 

Wilt  thou  bring  fine  gold  for  a  payment 

For  sins  on  this  wise  ? 
For  the  glittering  of  raiment 

And  the  shining  of  eyes, 
For  the  painting  of  faces 

And  the  sundering  of  trust, 
For  the  sins  of  thine  high  places 

And  delight  of  thy  lust  ? 


For  your  high  things  ye  shall  have  lowly, 

Lamentation  for  song; 
For,  behold,  I  God  am  holy, 

I  the  Lord  am  strong; 
Ye  shall  seek  me  and  shall  not  reach  me 

Till  the  wine-press  be  trod; 
In  that  hour  ye  shall  turn  and  beseech  me, 

Saith  the  Lord  God. 
100 


A  LITANY 

EIGHTH    ANTIPHONE 

Not  with  fine  gold  for  a  payment, 

But  with  coin  of  sighs, 
But  with  rending  of  raiment 

And  with  weeping  of  eyes, 
But  with  shame  of  stricken  faces 

And  with  strewing  of  dust, 
For  the  sin  of  stately  places 

And  lordship  of  lust; 


With  voices  of  men  made  lowly, 

Made  empty  of  song, 
O  Lord  God  most  holy, 

O  God  most  strong, 
We  reach  out  hands  to  reach  thee 

Ere  the  wine-press  be  trod; 
We  beseech  thee,  O  Lord,  we  beseech  thee, 

O  Lord  our  God. 


NINTH    ANTIPHONE 

In  that  hour  thou  shalt  say  to  the  night, 

Come  down  and  cover  us; 
To  the  cloud  on  thy  left  and  thy  right, 

Be  thou  spread  over  us; 
A  snare  shall  be  as  thy  mother, 

And  a  curse  thy  bride; 
Thou  shalt  put  her  away,  and  another 

Shall  lie  by  thy  side. 
101 


A  LITANY 

Thou  shalt  neither  rise  up  by  day 

Nor  lie  down  by  night; 
Would  God  it  were  dark!  thou  shalt  say; 

Would  God  it  were  light! 
And  the  sight  of  thine  eyes  shall  be  made 

As  the  burning  of  fire; 
And  thy  soul  shall  be  sorely  afraid 

For  thy  soul's  desire. 

Ye  whom  your  lords  loved  well, 

Putting  silver  and  gold  on  you, 
The  inevitable  hell 

Shall  surely  take  hold  on  you; 
Your  gold  shall  be  for  a  token, 

Your  staff  for  a  rod; 
With  the  breaking  of  bands  ye  are  broken, 

Saith  the  Lord  God. 


TENTH    ANTIPHONE 

In  our  sorrow  we  said  to  the  night, 

Fall  down  and  cover  us; 
To  the  darkness  at  left  and  at  right, 

Be  thou  shed  over  us; 
We  had  breaking  of  spirit  to  mother 

And  cursing  to  bride; 
And  one  was  slain,  and  another 

Stood  up  at  our  side. 

We  could  not  arise  by  day, 
Nor  lie  down  by  night; 
102 


A  LITANY 

Thy  sword  was  sharp  in  our  way, 

Thy  word  in  our  sight; 
The  delight  of  our  eyelids  was  made 

As  the  burning  of  fire; 
And  our  souls  became  sorely  afraid 

For  our  soul's  desire. 

We  whom  the  world  loved  well, 

Laying  silver  and  gold  on  us, 
The  kingdom  of  death  and  of  hell 

Riseth  up  to  take  hold  on  us; 
Our  gold  is  turned  to  a  token, 

Our  staff  to  a  rod; 
Yet  shalt  thou  bind  them  up  that  were  broken, 

O  Lord  our  God. 


A  LAMENTATION 


i 

WHO  hath  known  the  ways  of  time 
Or  trodden  behind  his  feet  ? 

There  is  no  such  man  among  men. 
For  chance  overcomes  him,  or  crime 
Changes;  for  all  things  sweet 
In  time  wax  bitter  again. 
Who  shall  give  sorrow  enough, 

Or  who  the  abundance  of  tears? 
Mine  eyes  are  heavy  with  love 

And  a  sword  gone  thorough  mine  ears, 
A  sound  like  a  sword  and  fire, 
For  pity,  for  great  desire; 
Who  shall  ensure  me  thereof, 

Lest  I  die,  being  full  of  my  fears? 

Who  hath  known  the  ways  and  the  wrath, 
The  sleepless  spirit,  the  root 
And  blossom  of  evil  will, 

The  divine  device  of  a  god? 
Who  shall  behold  it  or  hath  ? 

The  twice-tongued  prophets  are  mute 
The  many  speakers  are  still; 
No  foot  has  travelled  or  trod, 
104 


A  LAMENTATION 

No  hand  has  meted,  his  path. 
Man's  fate  is  a  blood-red  fruit, 

And  the  mighty  gods  have  their  fill 
And  relax  not  the  rein,  or  the  rod. 

Ye  were  mighty  in  heart  from  of  old, 

Ye  slew  with  the  spear,  and  are  slain. 
Keen  after  heat  is  the  cold, 

Sore  after  summer  is  rain, 
And  melteth  man  to  the  bone. 

As  water  he  weareth  away, 

As  a  flower,  as  an  hour  in  a  day, 
Fallen  from  laughter  to  moan. 
But  my  spirit  is  shaken  with  fear 

Lest  an  evil  thing  begin, 
New-born,  a  spear  for  a  spear, 

And  one  for  another  sin. 
Or  ever  our  tears  began, 

It  was  known  from  of  old  and  said; 
One  law  for  a  living  man, 

And  another  law  for  the  dead. 
For  these  are  fearful  and  sad, 

Vain,  and  things  without  breath; 
While  he  lives  let  a  man  be  glad, 
For  none  hath  joy  of  his  death. 

ii 

Who  hath  known  the  pain,  the  old  pain  of  earth, 

Or  all  the  travail  of  the  sea, 
The  many  ways  and  waves,  the  birth 
Fruitless,  the  labour  nothing  worth  ? 

Who  hath  known,  who  knoweth,  O  gods  ?  not  we 


A  LAMENTATION 

There  is  none  shall  say  he  hath  seen, 

There  is  none  he  hath  known. 
Though  he  saith,  Lo,  a  lord  have  I  been, 

I  have  reaped  and  sown; 
I  have  seen  the  desire  of  mine  eyes, 

The  beginning  of  love, 
The  season  of  kisses  and  sighs 

And  the  end  thereof. 
I  have  known  the  ways  of  the  sea, 

All  the  perilous  ways, 
Strange  winds  have  spoken  with  me, 

And  the  tongues  of  strange  days. 
I  have  hewn  the  pine  for  ships; 

Where  steeds  run  arow, 
I  have  seen  from  their  bridled  lips 

Foam  blown  as  the  snow. 

With  snapping  of  chariot-poles 

And  with  straining  of  oars 
I  have  grazed  in  the  race  the  goals, 

In  the  storm  the  shores; 
As  a  greave  is  cleft  with  an  arrow 

At  the  joint  of  the  knee, 
I  have  cleft  through  the  sea-straits  narrow 

To  the  heart  of  the  sea. 
When  air  was  smitten  in  sunder 

I  have  watched  on  high 
The  ways  of  the  stars  and  the  thunder 

In  the  night  of  the  sky; 
Where  the  dark  brings  forth  light  as  a  flower, 

As  from  lips  that  dissever; 
One  abideth  the  space  of  an  hour, 

One  endureth  for  ever. 
1 06 


A  LAMENTATION 

Lo,  what  hath  he  seen  or  known 

Of  the  way  and  the  wave 
Unbeholden,  unsailed  on,  unsown, 

From  the  breast  to  the  grave? 

Or  ever  the  stars  were  made,  or  skies, 
Grief  was  born,  and  the  kinless  night, 

Mother  of  gods  without  form  or  name. 
And  light  is  born  out  of  heaven  and  dies, 
And  one  day  knows  not  another's  light, 
But  night  is  one,  and  her  shape  the  same. 

But  dumb  the  goddesses  underground 

Wait,  and  we  hear  not  on  earth  if  their  feet 

Rise,  and  the  night  wax  loud  with  their  wings; 
Dumb,  without  word  or  shadow  of  sound; 
And  sift  in  scales  and  winnow  as  wheat 

Men's  souls,  and  sorrow  of  manifold  things. 

in 

Nor  less  of  grief  than  ours 
The  gods  wrought  long  ago 

To  bruise  men  one  by  one; 
But  with  the  incessant  hours 
Fresh  grief  and  greener  woe 
Spring,  as  the  sudden  sun 
Year  after  year  makes  flowers; 
And  these  die  down  and  grow, 
And  the  next  year  lacks  none. 

As  these  men  sleep,  have  slept 
The  old  heroes  in  time  fled, 
No  dream-divided  sleep; 
107 


A  LAMENTATION 

And  holier  eyes  have  wept 
Than  ours,  when  on  her  dead 

Gods  have  seen  Thetis  weep, 
With  heavenly  hair  far-swept 
Back,  heavenly  hands  outspread 
Round  what  she  could  not  keep, 

Could  not  one  day  withhold, 
One  night;  and  like  as  these 
White  ashes  of  no  weight, 
Held  not  his  urn  the  cold 
Ashes  of  Heracles? 

For  all  things  born  one  gate 
Opens,  no  gate  of  gold; 
Opens;  and  no  man  sees 
Beyond  the  gods  and  fate. 


ANIMA  ANCEPS 

TILL  death  have  broken 
Sweet  life's  love-token, 
Till  all  be  spoken 

That  shall  be  said, 
What  dost  thou  praying, 
O  soul,  and  playing 
With  song  and  saying, 

Things  flown  and  fled? 
For  this  we  know  not — 
That  fresh  springs  flow  not 
And  fresh  griefs  grow  not 

When  men  are  dead; 
When  strange  years  cover 
Lover  and  lover, 
And  joys  are  over 

And  tears  are  shed. 

If  one  day's  sorrow 

Mar  the  day's  morrow — 

If  man's  life  borrow 

And  man's  death  pay—- 
If souls  once  taken, 
If  lives  once  shaken, 
Arise,  awaken, 

By  night,  by  day — 
109 


ANIMA  ANCEPS 

Why  with  strong  crying 
And  years  of  sighing, 
Living  and  dying, 

Fast  ye  and  pray? 
For  all  your  weeping, 
Waking  and  sleeping, 
Death  comes  to  reaping 

And  takes  away. 

Though  time  rend  after 
Roof-tree  from  rafter, 
A  little  laughter 

Is  much  more  worth 
Than  thus  to  measure 
The  hour,  the  treasure, 
The  pain,  the  pleasure, 

The  death,  the  birth; 
Grief,  when  days  alter, 
Like  joy  shall  falter; 
Song-book  and  psalter, 

Mourning  and  mirth. 
Live  like  the  swallow; 
Seek  not  to  follow 
Where  earth  is  hollow 

Under  the  earth. 


IN  THE  ORCHARD 

(PROVENCAL  BURDEN) 

LEAVE  go  my  hands,  let  me  catch  breath  and  see; 
Let  the  dew-fall  drench  either  side  of  me; 

Clear  apple-leaves  are  soft  upon  that  moon 
Seen  sidelong  like  a  blossom  in  the  tree; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

The  grass  is  thick  and  cool,  it  lets  tis  lie. 
Kissed  upon  either  cheek  and  either  eye, 

I  turn  to  thee  as  some  green  afternoon 
Turns  toward  sunset,  and  is  loth  to  die; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

Lie  closer,  lean  your  face  upon  my  side, 

Feel  where  the  dew  fell  that  has  hardly  dried, 

Hear  how  the  blood  beats  that  went   nigh  to 

swoon ; 
The  pleasure  lives  there  when  the  sense  has  died; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

O  my  fair  lord,  I  charge  you  leave  me  this: 
Is  it  not  sweeter  than  a  foolish  kiss? 

Nay  take  it  then,  my  flower,  my  first  in  June, 
My  rose,  so  like  a  tender  mouth  it  is: 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 
in 


IN  THE  ORCHARD 

Love,  till  dawn  sunder  night  from  day  with  fire, 
Dividing  my  delight  and  my  desire, 

The  crescent  life  and  love  the  plenilune, 
Love  me  though  dusk  begin  and  dark  retire; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

Ah,  my  heart  fails,  my  blood  draws  back;  I  know, 
When  life  runs  over,  life  is  near  to  go; 

And  with   the    slain    of    love    love's  ways    are 

strewn, 
And  with  their  blood,  if  love  will  have  it  so; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

Ah,  do  thy  will  now;  slay  me  if  thou  wilt; 
There  is  no  building  now  the  walls  are  built, 

No  quarrying  now  the  corner-stone  is  hewn, 
No  drinking  now  the  vine's  whole  blood  is  spilt; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

Nay,  slay  me  now;  nay,  for  I  will  be  slain; 
Pluck  thy  red  pleasure  from  the  teeth  of  pain, 

Break   down   thy   vine   ere   yet   grape-gatherers 

prune, 
Slay  me  ere  day  can  slay  desire  again; 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 

Yea,  with  thy  sweet  lips,  with  thy  sweet  sword; 

yea, 
Take  life  and  all,  for  I  will  die,  I  say; 

Love,  I  gave  love,  is  life  a  better  boon? 
For  sweet  night's  sake  I  will  not  live  till  day; 
Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 
112 


IN  THE  ORCHARD 

Nay,  I  will  sleep  then  only;  nay,  but  go. 

Ah  sweet,  too  sweet  to  me,  my  sweet,  I  know 

Love,  sleep,  and  death  go  to  the  sweet  same  tune; 
Hold  my  hair  fast,  and  kiss  me  through  it  so. 

Ah  God,  ah  God,  that  day  should  be  so  soon. 


A   MATCH 

IP  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death, 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 
114 


A  MATCH 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 
And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


FAUSTINE 

Ave  Faustina  Imperatrix,  morituri  te  salutant. 

LEAN  back,  and  get  some  minutes'  peace; 

Let  your  head  lean 
Back  to  the  shoulder  with  its  fleece 

Of  locks,  Faustine. 

The  shapely  silver  shoulder  stoops, 

Weighed  over  clean 
With  state  of  splendid  hair  that  droops 

Each  side,  Faustine. 

Let  me  go  over  your  good  gifts 

That  crown  you  queen; 
A  queen  whose  kingdom  ebbs  and  shifts 

Each  week,  Faustine.  / 

Bright  heavy  brows  well  gathered^ttp: 

White  gloss  and  sheen; 
Carved  lips  that  make  my  lips  a  cup 

To  drink,  Faustine, 

Wine  and  rank  poison,  milk  and  blood, 

Being  mixed  therein 
Since  first  the  devil  threw  dice  with  God 

For  you,  Faustine. 
116 


FAUSTINE 

Your  naked  new-born  soul,  their  stake, 

Stood  blind  between; 
God  said  "let  him  that  wins  her  take 

And  keep  Faustine." 

But  this  time  Satan  throve,  no  doubt; 

Long  since,  I  ween, 
God's  part  in  you  was  battered  out; 

Long  since,  Faustine. 

The  die  rang  sideways  as  it  fell, 

Rang  cracked  and  thin, 
Like  a  man's  laughter  heard  in  hell 

Far  down,  Faustine, 

A  shadow  of  laughter  like  a  sigh, 

Dead  sorrow's  kin; 
So  rang,  thrown  down,  the  devil's  die 

That  won  Faustine. 

A  suckling  of  his  breed  you  were, 

One  hard  to  wean; 
But  God,  who  lost  you,  left  you  fair, 

We  see,  Faustine. 

You  have  the  face  that  suits  a  woman 

For  her  soul's  screen — 
The  sort  of  beauty  that's  called  human 

In  hell,  Faustine. 

You  could  do  all  things  but  be  good 
Or  chaste  of  mien; 
117 


' 


FAUSTINE 

And  that  you  would  not  if  you  could, 
We  know,  Faustine. 

Even  he  who  cast  seven  devils  out 

Of  Magdalene 
Could  hardly  do  as  much,  I  doubt, 

For  you,  Faustine. 

Did  Satan  make  you  to  spite  God? 

Or  did  God  mean 
To  scourge  with  scorpions  for  a  rod 

Our  sins,  Faustine  ? 

I  know  what  queen  at  first  you  were, 

As  though  I  had  seen 
Red  gold  and  black  imperious  hair 

Twice  crown  Faustine. 

As  if  your  fed  sarcophagus 

Spared  flesh  and  skin, 
You  come  back  face  to  face  with  us, 

The  same  Faustine. 

She  loved  the  games  men  played  with  death, 

Where  death  must  win; 
As  though  the  slain  man's  blood  and  breath 

Revived  Faustine. 

Nets  caught  the  pike,  pikes  tore  the  net; 

Lithe  limbs  and  lean 
From  drained-out  pores  dripped  thick  red  sweat 

To  soothe  Faustine. 
118 


FAUSTINE 

She  drank  the  steaming  drift  and  dust 

Blown  off  the  scene; 
Blood  could  not  ease  the  bitter  lust 

That  galled  Faustine. 

All  round  the  foul  fat  furrows  reeked, 

Where  blood  sank  in; 
The  circus  splashed  and  seethed  and  shrieked 

All  round  Faustine. 

But  these  are  gone  now:  years  entomb 

The  dust  and  din; 
Yea,  even  the  bath's  fierce  reek  and  fume 

That  slew  Faustine. 

Was  life  worth  living  then  ?  and  now 

Is  life  worth  sin  ? 
Where  are  the  imperial  years  ?  and  how 

Are  you  Faustine? 

Your  soul  forgot  her  joys,  forgot 

Her  times  of  teen; 
Yea,  this  life  likewise  will  you  not 

Forget,  Faustine? 

For  in  the  time  we  know  not  of 

Did  fate  begin 
Weaving  the  web  of  days  that  wove 

Your  doom,  Faustine. 

The  threads  were  wet  with  wine,  and  all 
Were  smooth  to  spin; 
119 


FAUSTINE 

They  wove  you  like  a  Bacchanal, 
The  first  Faustine. 

And  Bacchus  cast  your  mates  and  you 

Wild  grapes  to  glean; 
Your  flower-like  lips  were  dashed  with  dew 

From  his,  Faustine. 

Your  drenched  loose  hands  were  stretched  to  hold 

The  vine's  wet  green, 
Long  ere  they  coined  in  Roman  gold 

Your  face,  Faustine. 

Then  after  change  of  soaring  feather 

And  winnowing  fin, 
You  woke  in  weeks  of  feverish  weather, 

A  new  Faustine. 

A  star  upon  your  birthday  burned, 

Whose  fierce  serene 
Red  pulseless  planet  never  yearned 

In  heaven,  Faustine. 

Stray  breaths  of  Sapphic  song  that  blew 

Through  Mitylene 
Shook  the  fierce  quivering  blood  in  you 

By  night,  Faustine. 

The  shameless  nameless  love  that  makes 

Hell's  iron  gin 
Shut  on  you  like  a  trap  that  breaks 

The  soul,  Faustine. 

1 20 


FAUSTINE 

And  when  your  veins  were  void  and  dead, 

What  ghosts  unclean 
Swarmed  round  the  straitened  barren  bed 

That  hid  Faustine? 

What  sterile  growths  of  sexless  root 

Or  epicene? 
What  flower  of  kisses  without  fruit 

Of  love,  Faustine  ? 

What  adders  came  to  shed  their  coats? 

What  coiled  obscene 
Small  serpents  with  soft  stretching  throats 

Caressed  Faustine? 

But  the  time  came  of  famished  hours, 

Maimed  loves  and  mean, 
This  ghastly  thin -faced  time  of  ours, 

To  spoil  Faustine. 

You  seem  a  thing  that  hinges  hold, 

A  love-machine 
With  clockwork  joints  of  supple  gold — 

No  more,  Faustine. 

Not  godless,  for  you  serve  one  God, 

The  Lampsacene, 
Who  metes  the  gardens  with  his  rod; 

Your  lord,  Faustine. 

If  one  should  love  you  with  real  love 
(Such  things  have  been, 

121 


FAUSTINE 

Things  your  fair  face  knows  nothing  of, 
It  seems,  Faustine); 

That  clear  hair  heavily  bound  back, 

The  lights  wherein 
Shift  from  dead  blue  to  burnt-up  black; 

Your  throat,  Faustine, 

Strong,  heavy,  throwing  out  the  face 

And  hard  bright  chin 
And  shameful  scornful  lips  that  grace 

Their  shame,  Faustine, 

Curled  lips,  long  since  half  kissed  away. 

Still  sweet  and  keen; 
You'd  give  him — poison  shall  we  say? 

Or  what,  Faustine? 


A  CAMEO 

THERE  was  a  graven  image  of  Desire 

Painted  with  red  blood  on  a  ground  of  gold 
Passing  between  the  young  men  and  the  old, 

And  by  him  Pain,  whose  body  shone  like  fire, 

And  Pleasure  with  gaunt  hands  that  grasped  their 

hire. 

Of  his  left  wrist,  with  fingers  clenched  and  cold, 
The  insatiable  Satiety  kept  hold, 

Walking  with  feet  unshod  that  pashed  the  mire. 

The  senses  and  the  sorrows  and  the  sins, 

And  the  strange  loves  that  suck  the  breasts  of 
Hate 

Till  lips  and  teeth  bite  in  their  sharp  indenture, 

Followed  like  beasts  with  flap  of  wings  and  fins. 
Death  stood  aloof  behind  a  gaping  grate, 

Upon  whose  lock  was  written  Peradventure. 


SONG   BEFORE   DEATH 
(FROM  THE  FRENCH) 

1795 

SWEET  mother,  in  a  minute's  span 

Death  parts  thee  and  my  love  of  thee; 

Sweet  love,  that  yet  art  living  man, 
Come  back,  true  love,  to  comfort  me. 

Back,  ah,  come  back!  ah  wellaway! 

But  my  love  comes  not  any  day. 

As  roses,  when  the  warm  West  blows, 
Break  to  full  flower  and  sweeten  spring, 

My  soul  would  break  to  a  glorious  rose 
In  such  wise  at  his  whispering. 

In  vain  I  listen;  wellaway! 

My  love  says  nothing  any  day. 

You  that  will  weep  for  pity  of  love 
On  the  low  place  where  I  am  lain, 

I  pray  you,  having  wept  enough, 
Tell  him  for  whom  I  bore  such  pain 

That  he  was  yet,  ah!  wellaway! 

My  true  love  to  my  dying  day. 


ROCOCO 

TAKE  hands  and  part  with  laughter; 

Touch  lips  and  part  with  tears; 
Once  more  and  no  more  after, 

Whatever  comes  with  years. 
We  twain  shall  not  remeasure 

The  ways  that  left  us  twain; 
Nor  crush  the  lees  of  pleasure 

From  sanguine  grapes  of  pain. 

We  twain  once  well  in  sunder, 

What  will  the  mad  gods  do 
For  hate  with  me,  I  wonder, 

Or  what  for  love  with  you? 
Forget  them  till  November, 

And  dream  there's  April  yet; 
Forget  that  I  remember, 

And  dream  that  I  forget. 

Time  found  our  tired  love  sleeping, 

And  kissed  away  his  breath; 
But  what  should  we  do  weeping, 

Though  light  love  sleep  to  death  ? 
We  have  drained  his  lips  at  leisure, 

Till  there's  not  left  to  drain 
A  single  sob  of  pleasure, 

A  single  pulse  of  pain. 


ROCOCO 

Dream  that  the  lips  once  breathless 

Might  quicken  if  they  would; 
Say  that  the  soul  is  deathless; 

Dream  that  the  gods  are  good; 
Say  March  may  wed  September, 

And  time  divorce  regret; 
But  not  that  you  remember, 

And  not  that  I  forget. 

We  have  heard  from  hidden  places 

What  love  scarce  lives  and  hears: 
We  have  seen  on  fervent  faces 

The  pallor  of  strange  tears: 
We  have  trod  the  wine-vat's  treasure, 

Whence,  ripe  to  steam  and  stain, 
Foams  round  the  feet  of  pleasure 

The  blood-red  must  of  pain. 

Remembrance  may  recover 

And  time  bring  back  to  time 
The  name  of  your  first  lover, 

The  ring  of  my  first  rhyme; 
But  rose-leaves  of  December 

The  frosts  of  June  shall  fret, 
The  day  that  you  remember, 

The  day  that  I  forget. 

The  snake  that  hides  and  hisses 
In  heaven  we  twain  have  known; 

The  grief  of  cruel  kisses, 

The  joy  whose  mouth  makes  moan ; 
126 


ROCOCO 

The  pulse's  pause  and  measure, 

Where  in  one  furtive  vein 
Throbs  through  the  heart  of  pleasure 

The  purpler  blood  of  pain. 

We  have  done  with  tears  and  treasons 

And  love  for  treason's  sake; 
Room  for  the  swift  new  seasons, 

The  years  that  burn  and  break, 
Dismantle  and  dismember 

Men's  days  and  dreams,  Juliette; 
For  love  may  not  remember, 

But  time  will  not  forget. 

Life  treads  down  love  in  flying, 

Time  withers  him  at  root; 
Bring  all  dead  things  and  dying, 

Reaped  sheaf  and  ruined  fruit, 
Where,  crushed  by  three  days'  pressure, 

Our  three  days'  love  lies  slain; 
And  earlier  leaf  of  pleasure, 

And  latter  flower  of  pain. 

Breathe  close  upon  the  ashes, 

It  may  be  flame  will  leap; 
Unclose  the  soft  close  lashes, 

Lift  up  the  lids,  and  weep. 
Light  love's  extinguished  ember, 

Let  one  tear  leave  it  wet 
For  one  that  you  remember 

And  ten  that  you  forget. 
127 


STAGE   LOVE 

WHEN  the  game  began  between  them  for  a  jest, 
He  played  king  and  she  played  queen  to  match  the 

best; 
Laughter  soft  as  tears,  and  tears  that  turned  to 

laughter, 
These  were  things  she  sought  for  years  and  sorrowed 

after. 

Pleasure  with  dry  lips,  and  pain  that  walks  by  night; 
All  the  sting  and  all  the  stain  of  long  delight; 
These  were  things  she  knew  not  of,  that  knew  not  of 

her, 
When  she  played  at  half  a  love  with  half  a  lover. 

Time  was  chorus,  gave  them  cues  to  laugh  or  cry; 
They  would  kill,  befool,  amuse  him,  let  him  die; 
Set  him  webs  to  weave  to-day  and  break  to-morrow, 
Till  he  died  for  good  in  play,  and  rose  in  sorrow. 

What  the  years  mean ;  how  time  dies  and  is  not  slain ; 
How  love  grows  and  laughs  and  cries  and  wanes 

again ; 
These  were  things  she  came  to  know,  and  take  their 

measure, 
When  the  play  was  played  out  so  for  one  man's 

pleasure. 

128 


THE  LEPER 

NOTHING  is  better,  I  well  think, 
Than  love;  the  hidden  well-water 

Is  not  so  delicate  to  drink: 

This  was  well  seen  of  me  and  her. 

I  served  her  in  a  royal  house; 

I  served  her  wine  and  curious  meat. 
For  will  to  kiss  between  her  brows, 

I  had  no  heart  to  sleep  or  eat. 

Mere  scorn  God  knows  she  had  of  me, 
A  poor  scribe,  nowise  great  or  fair, 

Who  plucked  his  clerk's  hood  back  to  see 
Her  curled-up  lips  and  amorous  hair. 

I  vex  my  head  with  thinking  this. 

Yea,  though  God  always  hated  me, 
And  hates  me  now  that  I  can  kiss 

Her  eyes,  plait  up  her  hair  to  see 

How  she  then  wore  it  on  the  brows, 
Yet  am  I  glad  to  have  her  dead 

Here  in  this  wretched  wattled  house 
Where  I  can  kiss  her  eyes  and  head. 
129 


THE  LEPER 

Nothing  is  better,  I  well  know, 

Than  love;  no  amber  in  cold  sea 
Or  gathered  berries  under  snow: 

That  is  well  seen  of  her  and  me. 

Three  thoughts  I  make  my  pleasure  of: 
First  I  take  heart  and  think  of  this: 

That  knight's  gold  hair  she  chose  to  love, 
His  mouth  she  had  such  will  to  kiss. 

Then  I  remember  that  sundawn 

I  brought  him  by  a  privy  way 
Out  at  her  lattice,  and  thereon 

What  gracious  words  she  found  to  say. 

(Cold  rushes  for  such  little  feet — 
Both  feet  could  lie  into  my  hand. 

A  marvel  was  it  of  my  sweet 

Her  upright  body  could  so  stand.) 

"Sweet  friend,  God  give  you  thank  and  grace; 

Now  am  I  clean  and  whole  of  shame, 
Nor  shall  men  burn  me  in  the  face 

For  my  sweet  fault  that  scandals  them." 

I  tell  you  over  word  by  word. 

She,  sitting  edgewise  on  her  bed, 
Holding  her  feet,  said  thus.     The  third, 

A  sweeter  thing  than  these,  I  said. 

God,  that  makes  time  and  ruins  it 
And  alters  not,  abiding  God, 
130 


THE  LEPER 

Changed  with  disease  her  body  sweet, 
The  body  of  love  wherein  she  abode. 

Love  is  more  sweet  and  comelier 

Than  a  dove's  throat  strained  out  to  sing. 
All  they  spat  out  and  cursed  at  her 

And  cast  her  forth  for  a  base  thing. 

They  cursed  her,  seeing  how  God  had  wrought 
This  curse  to  plague  her,  a  curse  of  his. 

Fools  were  they  surely,  seeing  not 
How  sweeter  than  all  sweet  she  is. 

He  that  had  held  her  by  the  hair, 
With  kissing  lips  blinding  her  eyes, 

Felt  her  bright  bosom,  strained  and  bare, 
Sigh  under  him,  with  short  mad  cries 

Out  of  her  throat  and  sobbing  mouth 

And  body  broken  up  with  love, 
With  sweet  hot  tears  his  lips  were  loth 

Her  own  should  taste  the  savour  of, 

Yea,  he  inside  whose  grasp  all  night 

Her  fervent  body  leapt  or  lay, 
Stained  with  sharp  kisses  red  and  white, 

Found  her  a  plague  to  spurn  away. 

I  hid  her  in  this  wattled  house, 
I  served  her  water  and  poor  bread. 

For  joy  to  kiss  between  her  brows 
Time  upon  time  I  was  nigh  dead. 


THE  LEPER 

Bread  failed;  we  got  but  well-water 

And  gathered  grass  with  dropping  seed. 

I  had  such  joy  of  kissing  her, 
I  had  small  care  to  sleep  or  feed. 

Sometimes  when  service  made  me  glad 
The  sharp  tears  leapt  between  my  lids, 

Falling  on  her,  such  joy  I  had 
To  do  the  service  God  forbids. 

"I  pray  you  let  me  be  at  peace, 

Get  hence,  make  room  for  me  to  die." 

She  said  that:  her  poor  lip  would  cease, 
Put  up  to  mine,  and  turn  to  cry. 

I  said,  "Bethink  yourself  how  love 
Fared  in  us  twain,  what  either  did; 

Shall  I  unclothe  my  soul  thereof  ? 
That  I  should  do  this,  God  forbid." 

Yea,  though  God  hateth  us,  he  knows 

That  hardly  in  a  little  thing 
Love  faileth  of  the  work  it  does 

Till  it  grow  ripe  for  gathering. 

Six  months,  and  now  my  sweet  is  dead 
A  trouble  takes  me;  I  know  not 

If  all  were  done  well,  all  well  said, 
No  word  or  tender  deed  forgot. 

Too  sweet,  for  the  least  part  in  her, 

To  have  shed  life  out  by  fragments;  yet, 
132 


THE  LEPER 

Could  the  close  mouth  catch  breath  and  stir, 
I  might  see  something  I  forget. 

Six  months,  and  I  sit  still  and  hold 
In  two  cold  palms  her  cold  two  feet. 

Her  hair,  half  grey  half  ruined  gold, 
Thrills  me  and  burns  me  in  kissing  it. 

Love  bites  and  stings  me  through,  to  see 
Her  keen  face  made  of  sunken  bones. 

Her  worn-off  eyelids  madden  me, 

That  were  shot  through  with  purple  once. 

She  said,  "Be  good  with  me;  I  grow 
So  tired  for  shame's  sake,  I  shall  die 

If  you  say  nothing:"  even  so. 

And  she  is  dead  now,  and  shame  put  by. 

Yea,  and  the  scorn  she  had  of  me 

In  the  old  time,  doubtless  vexed  her  then. 

I  never  should  have  kissed  her.  See 
What  fools  God's  anger  makes  of  men! 

She  might  have  loved  me  a  little  too, 
Had  I  been  humbler  for  her  sake. 

But  that  new  shame  could  make  love  new 
She  saw  not — yet  her  shame  did  make. 

I  took  too  much  upon  my  love, 
Having  for  such  mean  service  done 

Her  beauty  and  all  the  ways  thereof, 
Her  face  and  all  the  sweet  thereon. 


THE  LEPER 

Yea,  all  this  while  I  tended  her, 

I  know  the  old  love  held  fast  his  part: 

I  know  the  old  scorn  waxed  heavier, 
Mixed  with  sad  wonder,  in  her  heart. 

It  may  be  all  my  love  went  wrong — 
A  scribe's  work  writ  awry  and  blurred, 

Scrawled  after  the  blind  evensong — 
Spoilt  music  with  no  perfect  word. 

But  surely  I  would  fain  have  done 

All  things  the  best  I  could.     Perchance 

Because  I  failed,  came  short  of  one, 
She  kept  at  heart  that  other  man's. 

I  am  grown  blind  with  all  these  things: 
It  may  be  now  she  hath  in  sight 

Some  better  knowledge;  still  there  clings 
The  old  question.     Will  not  God  do  right?1 

1  En  ce  temps-la  estoyt  dans  ce  pays  grand  nombre  de 
ladres  et  de  meseaulx,  ce  dont  le  roy  eut  grand  desplaisir, 
veu  que  Dieu  dust  en  estre  moult  grief vement  courrouc6. 
Ores  il  advint  qu'une  noble  damoyselle  appel£e  Yolande  de 
Sallieres  estant  atteincte  et  touste  guastee  de  ce  vilain  mal, 
tous  ses  amys  et  ses  parens  ayant  devant  leurs  yeux 
la  paour  de  Dieu  la  firent  issir  fors  de  leurs  maisons  et 
oncques  ne  voulurent  recepvoir  ni  reconforter  chose 
mauldicte  de  Dieu  et  a  tous  les  hommes  puante  et  ab- 
hominable.  Ceste  dame  avoyt  este  moult  belle  et  gracieuse 
de  formes,  et  de  son  corps  elle  estoyt  large  et  de  vie  lascive. 
Pourtant  nul  des  amans  qui  1'avoyent  souventesfois  accollee 
et  baisee  moult  tendrement  ne  voulust  plus  heberger  si  laide 
femme  et  si  detestable  pescheresse.  Ung  seul  clerc  qui 

134 


THE  LEPER 

feut  premiSrement  son  lacquays  et  son  entremetteur  en 
mature  d'amour  la  rejut  chez  luy  et  la  r6c£la  dans  une 
petite  cabane.  La  mourut  la  meschinette  de  grande 
misere  et  de  male  mort:  et  apres  elle  dec6da  ledist  clerc  qui 
pour  grand  amour  1'avoyt  six  mois  durant  soignee,  lavee, 
habille'e  et  deshabillee  tous  les  jours  de  ses  mains  propres. 
Mesme  dist-on  que  ce  meschant  homme  et  mauldict  clerc  se 
rem^mourant  de  la  grande  beaute"  passee  et  guast6e  de  ceste 
femme  se  delectoyt  maintesfois  a  la  baiser  sur  sa  bouche 
orde  et  16preuse  et  1'accoller  doulcement  de  ses  mains 
amoureuses.  Aussy  est-il  mort  de  ceste  mesme  maladie 
abhominable.  Cecy  advint  pr£s  Fontainebellant  en 
Gastinois.  Et  quand  ouyt  le  roy  Philippe  ceste  adventure 
moult  en  estoyt  esmerveille. 

Grandes  Chroniques  de  France,  1505. 


A  BALLAD   OF   BURDENS 

THE  burden  of  fair  women.     Vain  delight, 

And  love  self-slain  in  some  sweet  shameful  way, 

And  sorrowful  old  age  that  comes  by  night 
As  a  thief  comes  that  has  no  heart  by  day, 
And  change  that  finds  fair  cheeks  and  leaves  them 
grey, 

And  weariness  that  keeps  awake  for  hire, 

And  grief  that  says  what  pleasure  used  to  say; 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  bought  kisses.     This  is  sore, 

A  burden  without  fruit  in  childbearing ; 
Between  the  nightfall  and  the  dawn  threescore, 

Threescore  between  the  dawn  and  evening. 

The  shuddering  in  thy  lips,  the  shuddering 
In  thy  sad  eyelids  tremulous  like  fire, 

Makes  love  seem  shameful  and  a  wretched  thing. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  sweet  speeches.     Nay,  kneel  down, 
Cover  thy  head,  and  weep;  for  verily 

These  market -men  that  buy  thy  white  and  brown 
In  the  last  days  shall  take  no  thought  for  thee. 
In  the  last  days  like  earth  thy  face  shall  be, 

Yea,  like  sea-marsh  made  thick  with  brine  and  mire, 

136 


A  BALLAD  OF  BURDENS 

Sad  with  sick  leavings  of  the  sterile  sea. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  long  living.     Thou  shalt  fear 
Waking,  and  sleeping  mourn  upon  thy  bed; 

And  say  at  night  "Would  God  the  day  were  here," 
And  say  at  dawn  "Would  God  the  day  were  dead." 
With  weary  days  thou  shalt  be  clothed  and  fed, 

And  wear  remorse  of  heart  for  thine  attire, 

Pain  for  thy  girdle  and  sorrow  upon  thine  head; 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  bright  colours.     Thou  shalt  see 

Gold  tarnished,  and  the  grey  above  the  green; 
And  as  the  thing  thou  seest  thy  face  shall  be, 

And  no  more  as  the  thing  beforetime  seen. 

And  thou  shalt  say  of  mercy  "It  hath  been," 
And  living,  watch  the  old  lips  and  loves  expire, 

And  talking,  tears  shall  take  thy  breath  between; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  sad  sayings.     In  that  day 

Thou  shalt  tell  all  thy  days  and  hours,  and  tell 

Thy  times  and  ways  and  words  of  love,  and  say 
How  one  was  dear  and  one  desirable, 
And  sweet  was  life  to  hear  and  sweet  to  smell, 

But  now  with  lights  reverse  the  old  hours  retire 
And  the  last  hour  is  shod  with  fire  from  hell; 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  four  seasons.     Rain  in  spring, 
White  rain  and  wind  among  the  tender  trees; 
137 


A  BALLAD  OF  BURDENS 

A  summer  of  green  sorrows  gathering, 
Rank  autumn  in  a  mist  of  miseries, 
With  sad  face  set  towards  the  year,  that  sees 

The  charred  ash  drop  out  of  the  dropping  pyre, 
And  winter  wan  with  many  maladies; 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  dead  faces.     Out  of  sight 

And  out  of  love,  beyond  the  reach  of  hands, 

Changed  in  the  changing  of  the  dark  and  light, 
They  walk  and  weep  about  the  barren  lands 
Where  no  seed  is  nor  any  garner  stands, 

Where  in  short  breaths  the  doubtful  days  respire. 
And  time's  turned  glass  lets  through  the  sighing 
sands ; 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  much  gladness.     Life  and  lust 

Forsake  thee,  and  the  face  of  thy  delight; 
And  underfoot  the  heavy  hour  strews  dust, 

And  overhead  strange  weathers  burn  and  bite; 

And  where  the  red  was,  lo  the  bloodless  white, 
And  where  truth  was,  the  likeness  of  a  liar, 

And  where  day  was,  the  likeness  of  the  night; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

L'ENVOY 

Princes,  and  ye  whom  pleasure  quickeneth, 

Heed  well  this  rhyme  before  your  pleasure  tire; 

For  life  is  sweet,  but  after  life  is  death. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 
138 


RONDEL 

KISSING  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  wound  and  found  it  sweet; 
Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound  and  found  her  fair, 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me, 
Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea; 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  love  not  relish  worse? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  death  had  kissed  me  there, 
Kissing  her  hair? 


BEFORE  THE   MIRROR 

n 

(VERSES  WRITTEN  UNDER  A  PICTURE) 
INSCRIBED  TO  J.  A.  WHISTLER 

I 

WHITE  rose  in  red  rose-garden 

Is  not  so  white; 
Snowdrops  that  plead  for  pardon 

And  pine  for  fright 
Because  the  hard  East  blows 
Over  their  maiden  rows 

Grow  not  as  this  face  grows  from  pale  to  bright. 

Behind  the  veil,  forbidden, 

Shut  up  from  sight, 
Love,  is  there  sorrow  hidden, 

Is  there  delight  ? 
Is  joy  thy  dower  or  grief, 
White  rose  of  weary  leaf, 

Late  rose  whose  life  is  brief,  whose  loves  are  light  ? 

Soft  snows  that  hard  winds  harden 

Till  each  flake  bite 
Fill  all  the  flowerless  garden 

Whose  flowers  took  flight 
140 


BEFORE  THE  MIRROR 

Long  since  when  summer  ceased, 
And  men  rose  up  from  feast, 

And  warm  west  wind  grew  east,  and  warm  day 
night. 

ii 

"Come  snow,  come  wind  or  thunder 

High  up  in  air, 
I  watch  my  face,  and  wonder 

At  my  bright  hair; 
Nought  else  exalts  or  grieves 
The  rose  at  heart,  that  heaves 

With    love    of    her    own   leaves    and   lips    that 
pair. 

"She  knows  not  loves  that  kissed  her 

She  knows  not  where. 
Art  thou  the  ghost,  my  sister, 

White  sister  there, 
Am  I  the  ghost,  who  knows? 
My  hand,  a  fallen  rose, 

Lies  snow-white  on  white  snows,  and  takes  no 
care. 

"I  cannot  see  what  pleasures 

Or  what  pains  were; 
What  pale  new  loves  and  treasures 

New  years  will  bear; 
What  beam  will  fall,  what  shower, 
What  grief  or  joy  for  dower; 

But  one  thing  knows  the   flower;  the   flower  is 
fair." 

141 


BEFORE  THE  MIRROR 
in 

Glad,  but  not  flushed  with  gladness, 

Since  joys  go  by; 
Sad,  but  not  bent  with  sadness, 

Since  sorrows  die; 
Deep  in  the  gleaming  glass 
She  sees  all  past  things  pass, 

And  all  sweet  life  that  was  lie  down  and  lie. 

There  glowing  ghosts  of  flowers 

Draw  down,  draw  nigh; 
And  wings  of  swift  spent  hours 

Take  flight  and  fly; 
She  sees  by  formless  gleams, 
She  hears  across  cold  streams, 

Dead  mouths  of  many  dreams  that  sing  and  sigh 

Face  fallen  and  white  throat  lifted, 

With  sleepless  eye 
She  sees  old  loves  that  drifted, 

She  knew  not  why, 
Old  loves  and  faded  fears 
Float  down  a  stream  that  hears 

The  flowing  of  all  men's  tears  beneath  the  sky. 


EROTION 

SWEET  for  a  little  even  to  fear,  and  sweet, 

0  love,  to  lay  down  fear  at  love's  fair  feet; 
Shall  not  some  fiery  memory  of  his  breath 
Lie  sweet  on  lips  that  touch  the  lips  of  death? 
Yet  leave  me  not;  yet,  if  thou  wilt,  be  free; 
Love  me  no  more,  but  love  my  love  of  thee. 
Love  where  thou  wilt,  and  live  thy  life;  and  I, 
One  thing  I  can,  and  one  love  cannot — die. 

Pass  from  me;  yet  thine  arms,  thine  eyes,  thine  hair, 
Feed  my  desire  and  deaden  my  despair. 
Yet  once  more  ere  time  change  us,  ere  my  cheek 
Whiten,  ere  hope  be  dumb  or  sorrow  speak, 
Yet  once  more  ere  thou  hate  me,  one  full  kiss; 
Keep  other  hours  for  others,  save  me  this. 
Yea,  and  I  will  not  (if  it  please  thee)  weep, 
Lest  thou  be  sad;  I  will  but  sigh,  and  sleep. 
Sweet,   does   death  hurt?  thou  canst  not  do  me 
wrong : 

1  shall  not  lack  thee,  as  I  loved  thee,  long. 
Hast  thou  not  given  me  above  all  that  live 
Joy,  and  a  little  sorrow  shalt  not  give  ? 

What  even  though  fairer  fingers  of  strange  girls 
Pass  nestling  through  thy  beautiful  boy's  curls 
As  mine  did,  or  those  curled  lithe  lips  of  thine 
Meet  theirs  as  these,  all  theirs  come  after  mine; 

143 


EROTION 

And  though  I  were  not,  though  I  be  not,  best, 

I  have  loved  and  love  thee  more  than  all  the  rest. 

0  love,  O  lover,  loose  or  hold  me  fast, 

1  had  thee  first,  whoever  have  thee  last; 
Fairer  or  not,  what  need  I  know,  what  care? 
To  thy  fair  bud  my  blossom  once  seemed  fair. 
Why  am  I  fair  at  all  before  thee,  why 

At  all  desired?  seeing  thou  art  fair,  not  I. 

I  shall  be  glad  of  thee,  O  fairest  head, 

Alive,  alone,  without  thee,  with  thee,  dead; 

I  shall  remember  while  the  light  lives  yet, 

And  in  the  night-time  I  shall  not  forget. 

Though  (as  thou  wilt)  thou  leave  me  ere  life  leave, 

I  will  not,  for  thy  love  I  will  not,  grieve; 

Not  as  they  use  who  love  not  more  than  I, 

Who  love  not  as  I  love  thee  though  I  die; 

And  though  thy  lips,  once  mine,  be  oftener  prest 

To  many  another  brow  and  balmier  breast, 

And  sweeter  arms,  or  sweeter  to  thy  mind, 

Lull  thee  or  lure,  more  fond  thou  wilt  not  find. 


IN   MEMORY   OF  WALTER   SAVAGE 
LANDOR 

BACK  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring, 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea, 

Filled  full  of  sun; 
All  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year: 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there, 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 

Upon  my  hair. 

145 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end, 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure, 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free, 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now; 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  brow; 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.     Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  released, 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 
Receive  and  keep, 
146 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust, 
His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER.     1852 

PUSH  hard  across  the  sand, 

For  the  salt  wind  gathers  breath; 

Shoulder  and  wrist  and  hand, 

Push  hard  as  the  push  of  death. 

The  wind  is  as  iron  that  rings, 

The  foam-heads  loosen  and  flee; 

It  swells  and  welters  and  swings, 
The  pulse  of  the  tide  of  the  sea. 

And  up  on  the  yellow  cliff 

The  long  corn  flickers  and  shakes; 
Push,  for  the  wind  holds  stiff, 

And  the  gunwale  dips  and  rakes. 

Good  hap  to  the  fresh  fierce  weather, 
The  quiver  and  beat  of  the  sea! 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

Out  to  the  sea  with  her  there, 

Out  with  her  over  the  sand; 
Let  the  kings  keep  the  earth  for  their  share! 

We  have  done  with  the  sharers  of  land. 
148 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER 

They  have  tied  the  world  in  a  tether, 

They  have  bought  over  God  with  a  fee; 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

We  have  done  with  the  kisses  that  sting, 
The  thief's  mouth  red  from  the  feast, 

The  blood  on  the  hands  of  the  king 

And  the  lie  at  the  lips  of  the  priest. 

Will  they  tie  the  winds  in  a  tether, 
Put  a  bit  in  the  jaws  of  the  sea? 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

Let  our  flag  run  out  straight  in  the  wind! 

The  old  red  shall  be  floated  again 
When  the  ranks  that  are  thin  shall  be  thinned, 

When  the  names  that  were  twenty  are  ten; 

When  the  devil's  riddle  is  mastered 

And  the  galley-bench  creaks  with  a  Pope, 

We  shall  see  Buonaparte  the  bastard 

Kick  heels  with  his  throat  in  a  rope. 

While  the  shepherd  sets  wolves  on  his  sheep 
And  the  emperor  halters  his  kine, 

While  Shame  is  a  watchman  asleep 
And  Faith  is  a  keeper  of  swine, 

Let  the  wind  shake  our  flag  like  a  feather, 
Like  the  plumes  of  the  foam  of  the  sea! 
149 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

All  the  world  has  its  burdens  to  bear, 

From  Cayenne  to  the  Austrian  whips; 

Forth,  with  the  rain  in  our  hair 

And  the  salt  sweet  foam  in  our  lips; 

In  the  teeth  of  the  hard  glad  weather, 
In  the  blown  wet  face  of  the  sea; 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  REVOLUTION.     1860 

THE  heart  of  the  rulers  is  sick,  and  the  high-priest 

covers  his  head: 
For  this  is  the  song  of  the  quick  that  is  heard  in  the 

ears  of  the  dead. 

The  poor  and  the  halt  and  the  blind  are  keen  and 

mighty  and  fleet: 
Like  the  noise  of  the  blowing  of  wind  is  the  sound  of 

the  noise  of  their  feet. 

The  wind  has  the  sound  of  a  laugh  in  the  clamour  of 

days  and  of  deeds: 
The  priests  are  scattered  like  chaff,  and  the  rulers 

broken  like  reeds. 

The  high-priest  sick  from  qualms,  with  his  raiment 

bloodily  dashed; 
The  thief  with  branded  palms,  and  the  liar  with 

cheeks  abashed. 

They  are  smitten,  they  tremble  greatly,  they  are 

pained  for  their  pleasant  things: 
For  the  house  of  the  priests  made  stately,  and  the 

might  in  the  mouth  of  the  kings. 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  REVOLUTION 

They  are  grieved  and  greatly  afraid ;  they  are  taken, 

they  shall  not  flee: 
For  the  heart  of  the  nations  is  made  as  the  strength 

of  the  springs  of  the  sea. 


They  were  fair  in  the  grace  of  gold,  they  walked  with 

delicate  feet: 
They  were  clothed  with  the  cunning  of  old,  and  the 

smell  of  their  garments  was  sweet. 

For  the  breaking  of  gold  in  their  hair  they  halt  as  a 

man  made  lame: 
They  are  utterly  naked  and  bare;  their  mouths  are 

bitter  with  shame. 


Wilt  thou  judge  thy  people  now,  O  king  that  wast 

found  most  wise  ? 
Wilt  thou  lie  any  more,  O  thou  whose  mouth  is 

emptied  of  lies? 

Shall  God  make  a  pact  with  thee,  till  his  hook  be 

found  in  thy  sides? 
Wilt  thou  put  back  the  time  of  the  sea,  or  the  place 

of  the  season  of  tides? 

Set  a  word  in  thy  lips,  to  stand  before  God  with  a 

word  in  thy  mouth : 
That  "the  rain  shall  return  in  the  land,  and  the 

tender  dew  after  drouth." 
152 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  REVOLUTION 

But  the  arm  of  the  elders  is  broken,  their  strength  is 

unbound  and  undone: 
They  wait  for  a  sign  of  a  token;  they  cry,  and  there 

cometh  none. 


Their  moan  is  in  every  place,  the  cry  of  them  filleth 

the  land: 
There  is  shame  in  the  sight  of  their  face,  there  is  fear 

in  the  thews  of  their  hand. 


They  are  girdled  about  the  reins  with  a  curse  for  the 

girdle  thereon: 
For  the  noise  of  the  rending  of  chains  the  face  of 

their  colour  is  gone. 

For  the  sound  of  the  shouting  of  men  they  are 

grievously  stricken  at  heart: 
They  are  smitten  asunder  with  pain,  their  bones  are 

smitten  apart. 

There  is  none  of  them  all  that  is  whole;  their  lips 

gape  open  for  breath; 
They  are  clothed  with  sickness  of  soul,  and  the  shape 

of  .the  shadow  of  death. 

The  wind  is  thwart  in  their  feet;  it  is  full  of  the 

shouting  of  mirth; 
As  one  shaketh  the  sides  of  a  sheet,  so  it  shaketh 

the  ends  of  the  earth. 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  REVOLUTION 

The  sword,  the  sword  is  made  keen;  the  iron  has 

opened  its  mouth; 
The  corn  is  red  that  was  green;  it  is  bound  for  the 

sheaves  of  the  south. 

The  sound  of  a  word  was  shed,  the  sound  of  the 

wind  as  a  breath, 
In  the  ears  of  the  souls  that  were  dead,  in  the  dust 

of  the  deepness  of  death ; 

Where  the  face  of  the  moon  is  taken,  the  ways  of 

the  stars  undone, 
The  light  of  the  whole  sky  shaken,  the  light  of  the 

face  of  the  sun: 

Where  the  waters  are  emptied  and  broken,  the  waves 

of  the  waters  are  stayed; 
Where  God  has  bound  for  a  token  the  darkness  that 

maketh  afraid; 

Where  the  sword  was  covered  and  hidden,  and  dust 

had  grown  in  its  side, 
A  word  came  forth  which  was  bidden,  the  crying  of 

one  that  cried: 

The  sides  of  the  two-edged  sword  shall  be  bare,  and 

its  mouth  shall  be  red, 
For  the  breath  of  the  face  of  the  Lord  that  is  felt  ia 

the  bones  of  the  dead. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

IN  the  fair  days  when  God 

By  man  as  godlike  trod, 
And  each  alike  was  Greek,  alike  was  free, 

God's  lightning  spared,  they  said, 

Alone  the  happier  head 
Whose  laurels  screened  it;  fruitless  grace  for  thee, 

To  whom  the  high  gods  gave  of  right 
Their  thunders  and  their  laurels  and  their  light. 

Sunbeams  and  bays  before 

Our  master's  servants  wore, 
For  these  Apollo  left  in  all  men's  lands; 

But  far  from  these  ere  now 

And  watched  with  jealous  brow 
Lay  the  blind  lightnings  shut  between  God's  hands, 

And  only  loosed  on  slaves  and  kings 
The  terror  of  the  tempest  of  their  wings. 

Born  in  those  younger  years 

That  shone  with  storms  of  spears 
And  shook  in  the  wind  blown  from  a  dead  world's 
pyre, 

When  by  her  back-blown  hair 

Napoleon  caught  the  fair 
And  fierce  Republic  with  her  feet  of  fire, 

'3  155 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

And  stayed  with  iron  words  and  hands 
Her  flight,  and  freedom  in  a  thousand  lands: 

Thou  sawest  the  tides  of  things 

Close  over  heads  of  kings, 
And  thine  hand  felt  the  thunder,  and  to  thee 

Laurels  and  lightnings  were 

As  sunbeams  and  soft  air 
Mixed  each  in  other,  or  as  mist  with  sea 

Mixed,  or  as  memory  with  desire, 
Or  the  lute's  pulses  with  the  louder  lyre. 

For  thee  man's  spirit  stood 

Disrobed  of  flesh  and  blood, 
And  bare  the  heart  of  the  most  secret  hours 

And  to  thine  hand  more  tame 

Than  birds  in  winter  came 
High  hopes  and  unknown  flying  forms  of  powers, 

And  from  thy  table  fed,  and  sang 
Till  with  the  tune  men's  ears  took  fire  and  rang. 

Even  all  men's  eyes  and  ears 

With  fiery  sound  and  tears 
Waxed  hot,  and  cheeks  caught  flame  and  eyelids  light, 

At  those  high  songs  of  thine 

That  stung  the  sense  like  wine, 
Or  fell  more  soft  than  dew  or  snow  by  night, 

Or  wailed  as  in  some  flooded  cave 
Sobs  the  strong  broken  spirit  of  a  wave. 

But  we,  our  master,  we 
Whose  hearts,  uplift  to  thee, 
156 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

Ache  with  the  pulse  of  thy  remembered  song, 

We  ask  not  nor  await 

From  the  clenched  hands  of  fate, 
As  thou,  remission  of  the  world's  old  wrong; 

Respite  we  ask  not,  nor  release; 
Freedom  a  man  may  have,  he  shall  not  peace. 

Though  thy  most  fiery  hope 

Storm  heaven,  to  set  wide  ope 
The  all-sought-for  gate  whence  God  or  Chance  debars 

All  feet  of  men,  all  eyes — 

The  old  night  resumes  her  skies, 
Her  hollow  hiding-place  of  clouds  and  stars, 

Where  nought  save  these  is  sure  in  sight; 
And,  paven  with  death,  our  days  are  roofed  with 
night. 

One  thing  we  can;  to  be 

Awhile,  as  men  may,  free; 
But  not  by  hope  or  pleasure  the  most  stern 

Goddess,  most  awful-eyed, 

Sits,  but  on  either  side 
Sit  sorrow  and  the  wrath  of  hearts  that  burn, 

Sad  faith  that  cannot  hope  or  fear, 
And  memory  grey  with  many  a  flowerless  year. 

Not  that  in  stranger's  wise 

I  lift  not  loving  eyes 
To  the  fair  foster-mother  France,  that  gave 

Beyond  the  pale  fleet  foam 

Help  to  my  sires  and  home, 
Whose  great  sweet  breast  could  shelter  those  and  save 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

Whom  from  her  nursing  breasts  and  hands 
Their  land  cast  forth  of  old  on  gentler  lands. 

Not  without  thoughts  that  ache 

For  theirs  and  for  thy  sake, 
I,  born  of  exiles,  hail  thy  banished  head; 

I  whose  young  song  took  flight 

Toward  the  great  heat  and  light 
On  me  a  child  from  thy  far  splendour  shed, 

From  thine  high  place  of  soul  and  song, 
Which,  fallen  on  eyes  yet  feeble,  made  them  strong. 

Ah,  not  with  lessening  love 

For  memories  born  hereof, 
I  look  to  that  sweet  mother-land,  and  see 

The  old  fields  and  fair  full  streams, 

And  skies,  but  fled  like  dreams 
The  feet  of  freedom  and  the  thought  of  thee; 

And  all  between  the  skies  and  graves 
The  mirth  of  mockers  and  the  shame  of  slaves. 

She,  killed  with  noisome  air, 

Even  she!  and  still  so  fair, 
Who  said  "Let  there  be  freedom,"  and  there  was 

Freedom;  and  as  a  lance 

The  fiery  eyes  of  France 
Touched  the  world's  sleep  and  as  a  sleep  made  pass 

Forth  of  men's  heavier  ears  and  eyes 
Smitten  with  fire  and  thunder  from  new  skies. 

Are  they  men's  friends  indeed 
Who  watch  them  weep  and  bleed? 

158 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

Because  thou  hast  loved  us,  shall  the  gods  love 

thee? 

Thou,  first  of  men  and  friend, 
Seest  thou,  even  thou,  the  end? 
Thou  knowest  what  hath  been,  knowest  thou  what 

shall  be? 

Evils  may  pass  and  hopes  endure; 
But  fate  is  dim,  and  all  the  gods  obscure. 

O  nursed  in  airs  apart, 

O  poet  highest  of  heart, 

Hast    thou    seen    time,  who   hast    seen  so    many 
things  ? 

Are  not  the  years  more  wise, 

More  sad  than  keenest  eyes, 
The  years  with  soundless  feet  and  sounding  wings? 

Passing  we  hear  them  not,  but  past 
The  clamour  of  them  thrills  us,  and  their  blast. 

Thou  art  chief  of  us,  and  lord; 

Thy  song  is  as  a  sword 

Keen -edged  and  scented  in  the  blade  from  flow- 
ers; 

Thou  art  lord  and  king;  but  we 

Lift  younger  eyes,  and  see 
Less  of  high  hope,  less  light  on  wandering  hours; 

Hours  that  have  borne  men  down  so  long, 
Seen  the  right  fail,  and  watched  uplift  the  wrong. 

But  thine  imperial  soul, 
As  years  and  ruins  roll 
To  the  same  end,  and  all  things  and  all  dreams 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

With  the  same  wreck  and  roar 

Drift  on  the  dim  same  shore, 
Still  in  the  bitter  foam  and  brackish  streams 

Tracks  the  fresh  water-spring  to  be 
And  sudden  sweeter  fountains  in  the  sea. 

As  once  the  high  God  bound 

With  many  a  rivet  round 
Man's  saviour,  and  with  iron  nailed  him  through, 

At  the  wild  end  of  things, 

Where  even  his  own  bird's  wings 
Flagged,  whence  the  sea  shone  like  a  drop  of  dew, 

From  Caucasus  beheld  below 
Past  fathoms  of  unfathomable  snow; 

So  the  strong  God,  the  chance 

Central  of  circumstance, 
Still  shows  him  exile  who  will  not  be  slave; 

All  thy  great  fame  and  thee 

Girt  by  the  dim  strait  sea 
With  multitudinous  walls  of  wandering  wave; 

Shows  us  our  greatest  from  his  throne 
Fate-stricken,  and  rejected  of  his  own. 

Yea,  he  is  strong,  thou  say'st, 

A  mystery  many -faced, 
The  wild  beasts  know  him  and  the  wild  birds  flee; 

The  blind  night  sees  him,  death 

Shrinks  beaten  at  his  breath, 
And  his  right  hand  is  heavy  on  the  sea: 

We  know  he  hath  made  us,  and  is  king; 
We  know  not  if  he  care  for  anything. 

1 60 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO 

Thus  much,  no  more,  we  know, 

He  bade  what  is  be  so, 
Bade  light  be  and  bade  night  be,  one  by  one; 

Bade  hope  and  fear,  bade  ill 

And  good  redeem  and  kill, 
Till  all  men  be  aweary  of  the  sun 

And  his  world  burn  in  its  own  flame 
And  bear  no  witness  longer  of  his  name. 

Yet  though  all  this  be  thus, 

Be  those  men  praised  of  us 

Who  have  loved  and  wrought  and  sorrowed  and  not 
sinned 

For  fame  or  fear  or  gold, 

Nor  waxed  for  winter  cold, 
Nor  changed  for  changes  of  the  worldly  wind; 

Praised  above  men  of  men  be  these, 
Till   this    one    world    and    work    we    know    shall 
cease. 

Yea,  one  thing  more  than  this, 

We  know  that  one  thing  is, 
The  splendour  of  a  spirit  without  blame, 

That  not  the  labouring  years 

Blind-born,  nor  any  fears, 
Nor  men  nor  any  gods  can  tire  or  tame; 

But  purer  power  with  fiery  breath 
Fills,  and  exalts  above  the  gulfs  of  death. 

Praised  above  men  be  thou, 
Whose  laurel-laden  brow, 

Made  for  the  morning,  droops  not  in  the  night; 

161 


TO  VICTOR   HUGO 

Praised  and  beloved,  that  none 

Of  all  thy  great  things  done 
Flies  higher  than  thy  most  equal  spirit's  flight ; 

Praised,  that  nor  doubt  nor  hope  could  bend 
Earth's  loftiest  head,  found  upright  to  the  end. 


BEFORE   DAWN 

SWEET  life,  if  life  were  stronger, 
Earth  clear  of  years  that  wrong  her, 
Then  two  things  might  live  longer, 

Two  sweeter  things  than  they; 
Delight,  the  rootless  flower, 
And  love,  the  bloomless  bower; 
Delight  that  lives  an  hour, 

And  love  that  lives  a  day. 

From  evensong  to  daytime, 
When  April  melts  in  Maytime, 
Love  lengthens  out  his  playtime, 

Love  lessens  breath  by  breath, 
And  kiss  by  kiss  grows  older 
On  listless  throat  or  shoulder 
Turned  sideways  now,  turned  colder 

Than  life  that  dreams  of  death. 

This  one  thing  once  worth  giving 
Life  gave,  and  seemed  worth  living; 
Sin  sweet  beyond  forgiving 

And  brief  beyond  regret: 
To  laugh  and  love  together 
And  weave  with  foam  and  feather 
And  wind  and  words  the  tether 

Our  memories  play  with  yet. 
163 


BEFORE  DAWN 

Ah,  one  thing  worth  beginning, 
One  thread  in  life  worth  spinning, 
Ah  sweet,  one  sin  worth  sinning 

With  all  the  whole  soul's  will; 
To  lull  you  till  one  stilled  you, 
To  kiss  you  till  one  killed  you, 
To  feed  you  till  one  filled  you, 

Sweet  lips,  if  love  could  fill; 

To  hunt  sweet  Love  and  lose  him 
Between  white  arms  and  bosom, 
Between  the  bud  and  blossom, 

Between  your  throat  and  chin; 
To  say  of  shame — what  is  it  ? 
Of  virtue — we  can  miss  it, 
Of  sin — we  can  but  kiss  it, 

And  it's  no  longer  sin: 

To  feel  the  strong  soul,  stricken 
Through  fleshly  pulses,  quicken 
Beneath  swift  sighs  that  thicken, 

Soft  hands  and  lips  that  smite; 
Lips  that  no  love  can  tire, 
With  hands  that  sting  like  fire, 
Weaving  the  web  Desire 

To  snare  the  bird  Delight. 

But  love  so  lightly  plighted, 
Our  love  with  torch  unlighted, 
Paused  near  us  unaff righted, 
Who  found  and  left  him  free; 
164 


BEFORE  DAWN 

None,  seeing  us  cloven  in  sunder, 
Will  weep  or  laugh  or  wonder; 
Light  love  stands  clear  of  thunder, 
And  safe  from  winds  at  sea. 

As,  when  late  larks  give  warning 
Of  dying  lights  and  dawning, 
Night  murmurs  to  the  morning, 

"Lie  still,  O  love,  lie  still;" 
And  half  her  dark  limbs  cover 
The  white  limbs  of  her  lover, 
With  amorous  plumes  that  hover 

And  fervent  lips  that  chill; 

As  scornful  day  represses 
Night's  void  and  vain  caresses, 
And  from  her  cloudier  tresses 

Unwinds  the  gold  of  his, 
With  limbs  from  limbs  dividing 
And  breath  by  breath  subsiding; 
For  love  has  no  abiding, 

But  dies  before  the  kiss; 

So  hath  it  been,  so  be  it; 
For  who  shall  live  and  flee  it  ? 
But  look  that  no  man  see  it 

Or  hear  it  unaware; 
Lest  all  who  love  and  choose  him 
See  Love,  and  so  refuse  him; 
For  all  who  find  him  lose  him, 

But  all  have  found  him  fair 


DOLORES 
(NOTRE-DAME  DBS  SEPT  DOULEURS) 

COLD  eyelids  that  hide  like  a  jewel 

Hard  eyes  that  grow  soft  for  an  hour; 
The  heavy  white  limbs,  and  the  cruel 

Red  mouth  like  a  venomous  flower; 
When  these  are  gone  by  with  their  glories, 

What  shall  rest  of  thee  then,  what  remain, 
O  mystic  and  sombre  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain? 

Seven  sorrows  the  priests  give  their  Virgin; 

But  thy  sins,  which  are  seventy  times  seven, 
Seven  ages  would  fail  thee  to  purge  in, 

And  then  they  would  haunt  thee  in  heaven: 
Fierce  midnights  and  famishing  morrows, 

And  the  loves  that  complete  and  control 
All  the  joys  of  the  flesh,  all  the  sorrows 

That  wear  out  the  soul. 

O  garment  not  goldefl  but  gilded, 
O  garden  where  all  men  may  dwell, 

O  tower  not  of  ivory,  but  builded 

By  hands  that  reach  heaven  from  hell; 
166 


DOLORES 

O  mystical  rose  of  the  mire, 

O  house  not  of  gold  but  of  gain, 
O  house  of  unquenchable  fire, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain! 

O  lips  full  of  lust  and  of  laughter, 

Curled  snakes  that  are  fed  from  my  breast, 
Bite  hard,  lest  remembrance  come  after 

And  press  with  new  lips  where  you  pressed. 
For  my  heart  too  springs  up  at  the  pressure, 

Mine  eyelids  too  moisten  and  burn; 
Ah,  feed  me  and  fill  me  with  pleasure, 

Ere  pain  come  in  turn. 

In  yesterday's  reach  and  to-morrow's, 

Out  of  sight  though  they  lie  of  to-day, 
There  have  been  and  there  yet  shall  be  sorrows 

That  smite  not  and  bite  not  in  play. 
The  life  and  the  love  thou  despisest, 

These  hurt  us  indeed,  and  in  vain, 
O  wise  among  women,  and  wisest, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Who  gave  thee  thy  wisdom?  what  stories 

That  stung  thee,  what  visions  that  smote? 
Wert  thou  pure  and  a  maiden,  Dolores, 

When  desire  took  thee  first  by  the  throat? 
What  bud  was  the  shelf  of  a  blossom 

That  all  men  may  smell  to  and  pluck? 
What  milk  fed  thee  first  at  what  bosom  ? 

What  sins  gave  thee  suck? 
167 


DOLORES 

We  shift  and  bedeck  and  bedrape  us, 

Thou  art  noble  and  nude  and  antique; 
Libitina  thy  mother,  Priapus 

Thy  father,  a  Tuscan  and  Greek. 
We  play  with  light  loves  in  the  portal, 

And  wince  and  relent  and  refrain; 
Loves  die,  and  we  know  thee  immortal, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Fruits  fail  and  love  dies  and  time  ranges; 

Thou  art  fed  with  perpetual  breath, 
And  alive  after  infinite  changes, 

And  fresh  from  the  kisses  of  death 
Of  languors  rekindled  and  rallied, 

Of  barren  delights  and  unclean, 
Things  monstrous  and  fruitless,  a  pallid 

And  poisonous  queen. 

Could  you  hurt  me,  sweet  lips,  though  I  hurt  you  ? 

Men  touch  them,  and  change  in  a  trice 
The  lilies  and  languors  of  virtue 

For  the  raptures  and  roses  of  vice; 
Those  lie  where  thy  foot  on  the  floor  is, 

These  crown  and  caress  thee  and  chain, 
O  splendid  and  sterile  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

There  are  sins  it  may  be  to  discover, 
There  are  deeds  it  may  be  to  delight. 

What  new  work  wilt  thou  find  for  thy  lover, 
What  new  passions  for  daytime  or  night  ? 
168 


DOLORES 

What  spells  that  they  know  not  a  word  of 
Whose  lives  are  as  leaves  overblown? 

What  tortures  undreamt  of,  unheard  of, 
Unwritten,  unknown? 

Ah  beautiful  passionate  body 

That  never  has  ached  with  a  heart! 

On  thy  mouth  though  the  kisses  are  bloody, 
Though  they  sting  till  it  shudder  and  smart, 

More  kind  than  the  love  we  adore  is, 
They  hurt  not  the  heart  or  the  brain, 

O  bitter  and  tender  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

• 

As  our  kisses  relax  and  redouble, 

From  the  lips  and  the  foam  and  the  fangs 
Shall  no  new  sin  be  born  for  men's  trouble, 

No  dream  of  impossible  pangs  ? 
With  the  sweet  of  the  sins  of  old  ages 

Wilt  thou  satiate  thy  soul  as  of  yore  ? 
Too  sweet  is  the  rind,  say  the  sages, 

Too  bitter  the  core. 

Hast  thou  told  all  thy  secrets  the  last  time, 

And  bared  all  thy  beauties  to  one? 
Ah,  where  shall  we  go  then  for  pastime, 

If  the  worst  that  can  be  has  been  done? 
But  sweet  as  the  rind  was  the  core  is; 

We  are  fain  of  thee  still,  we  are  fain, 
O  sanguine  and  subtle  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 
169 


DOLORES 

By  the  hunger  of  change  and  emotion, 

By  the  thirst  of  unbearable  things, 
By  despair,  the  twin-born  of  devotion, 

By  the  pleasure  that  winces  and  stings, 
The  delight  that  consumes  the  desire, 

The  desire  that  outruns  the  delight, 
By  the  cruelty  deaf  as  a  fire 

And  blind  as  the  night, 

By  the  ravenous  teeth  that  have  smitten 

Through  the  kisses  that  blossom  and  bud, 
By  the  lips  intertwisted  and  bitten 

Till  the  foam  has  a  savour  of  blood, 
By  the  pulse  as  it  rises  and  falters, 

By  the  hands  as  they  slacken  and  strain, 
I  adjure  thee,  respond  from  thine  altars, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Wilt  thou  smile  as  a  woman  disdaining 

The  light  fire  in  the  veins  of  a  boy  ? 
But  he  comes  to  thee  sad,  without  feigning, 

Who  has  wearied  of  sorrow  and  joy; 
Less  careful  of  labour  and  glory 

Than  the  elders  whose  hair  has  uncurled; 
And  young,  but  with  fancies  as  hoary 

And  grey  as  the  world. 

I  have  passed  from  the  outermost  portal 
To  the  shrine  where  a  sin  is  a  prayer; 

What  care  though  the  service  be  mortal? 
O  our  Lady  of  Torture,  what  care? 
170 


DOLORES 

All  thine  the  last  wine  that  I  pour  is, 

The  last  in  the  chalice  we  drain, 
O  fierce  and  luxurious  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

All  thine  the  new  wine  of  desire, 

The  fruit  of  four  lips  as  they  clung 
Till  the  hair  and  the  eyelids  took  fire, 

The  foam  of  a  serpentine  tongue, 
The  froth  of  the  serpents  of  pleasure, 

More  salt  than  the  foam  of  the  sea, 
Now  felt  as  a  flame,  now  at  leisure 

As  wine  shed  for  me. 

Ah  thy  people,  thy  children,  thy  chosen, 

Marked  cross  from  the  womb  and  perverse! 
They  have  found  out  the  secret  to  cozen 

The  gods  that  constrain  us  and  curse; 
They  alone,  they  are  wise,  and  none  other; 

Give  me  place,  even  me,  in  their  train, 
O  my  sister,  my  spouse,  and  my  m6ther, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

For  the  crown  of  our  life  as  it  closes 

Is  darkness,  the  fruit  thereof  dust; 
No  thorns  go  as  deep  as  a  rose's, 

And  love  is  more  cruel  than  lust. 
Time  turns  the  old  days  to  derision, 

Our  loves  into  corpses  or  wives; 
And  marriage  and  death  and  division 

Make  barren  our  lives, 
u  i?1 


DOLORES 

And  pale  from  the  past  we  draw  nigh  thee, 

And  satiate  with  comfortless  hours; 
And  we  know  thee,  how  all  men  belie  thee, 

And  we  gather  the  fruit  of  thy  flowers; 
The  passion  that  slays  and  recovers, 

The  pangs  and  the  kisses  that  rain 
On  the  lips  and  the  limbs  of  thy  lovers, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

The  desire  of  thy  furious  embraces 

Is  more  than  the  wisdom  of  years, 
On  the  blossom  though  blood  lie  in  traces, 

Though  the  foliage  be  sodden  with  tears. 
For  the  lords  in  whose  keeping  the  door  is 

That  opens  on  all  who  draw  breath 
Gave  the  cypress  to  love,  my  Dolores, 

The  myrtle  to  death. 

And  they  laughed,  changing  hands  in  the  measure, 

And  they  mixed  and  made  peace  after  strife ; 
Pain  melted  in  tears,  and  was  pleasure; 

Death  tingled  with  blood,  and  was  life. 
Like  lovers  they  melted  and  tingled, 

In  the  dusk  of  thine  innermost  fane; 
In  the  darkness  they  murmured  and  mingled, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

In  a  twilight  where  virtues  are  vices, 
In  thy  chapels,  unknown  of  the  sun, 

To  a  tune  that  enthralls  and  entices, 
They  were  wed,  and  the  twain  were  as  one. 
172 


DOLORES 

For  the  tune  from  thine  altar  hath  sounded 
Since  God  bade  the  world's  work  begin, 

And  the  fume  of  thine  incense  abounded, 
To  sweeten  the  sin. 

Love  listens,  and  paler  than  ashes, 

Through  his  curls  as  the  crown  on  them  slips, 
Lifts  languid  wet  eyelids  and  lashes, 

And  laughs  with  insatiable  lips. 
Thou  shalt  hush  him  with  heavy  caresses, 

With  music  that  scares  the  profane; 
Thou  shalt  darken  his  eyes  with  thy  tresses, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Thou  shalt  blind  his  bright  eyes  though  he  wrestle, 

Thou  shalt  chain  his  light  limbs  though  he  strive ; 
In  his  lips  all  thy  serpents  shall  nestle, 

In  his  hands  all  thy  cruelties  thrive. 
In  the  daytime  thy  voice  shall  go  through  him, 

In  his  dreams  he  shall  feel  thee  and  ache; 
Thou  shalt  kindle  by  night  and  subdue  him 

Asleep  and  awake. 

Thou  shalt  touch  and  make  redder  his  roses 

With  juice  not  of  fruit  nor  of  bud; 
When  the  sense  in  the  spirit  reposes, 

Thou  shalt  quicken  the  soul  through  the  blood. 
Thine,  thine  the  one  grace  we  implore  is, 

Who  would  live  and  not  languish  or  feign, 
O  sleepless  and  deadly  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

173 


DOLORES 

Dost  thou  dream,  in  a  respite  of  slumber, 

In  a  lull  of  the  fires  of  thy  life, 
Of  the  days  without  name,  without  number, 

When  thy  will  stung  the  world  into  strife; 
When,  a  goddess,  the  pulse  of  thy  passion 

Smote  kings  as  they  revelled  in  Rome; 
And  they  hailed  thee  re-risen,  O  Thalassian, 

Foam -white,  from  the  foam? 

When  thy  lips  had  such  lovers  to  natter; 

When  the  city  lay  red  from  thy  rods, 
And  thine  hands  were  as  arrows  to  scatter 

The  children  of  change  and  their  gods; 
When  the  blood  of  thy  foemen  made  fervent 

A  sand  never  moist  from  the  main, 
As  one  smote  them,  their  lord  and  thy  servant, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

On  sands  by  the  storm  never  shaken, 

Nor  wet  from  the  washing  of  tides; 
Nor  by  foam  of  the  waves  overtaken, 

Nor  winds  that  the  thunder  bestrides; 
But  red  from  the  print  of  thy  paces, 

Made  smooth  for  the  world  and  its  lords, 
Ringed  round  with  a  flame  of  fair  faces, 

And  splendid  with  swords. 

There  the  gladiator,  pale  for  thy  pleasure, 

Drew  bitter  and  perilous  breath; 
There  torments  laid  hold  on  the  treasure 

Of  limbs  too  delicious  for  death; 
174 


DOLORES 

When  thy  gardens  were  lit  with  live  torches; 

When  the  world  was  a  steed  for  thy  rein; 
When  the  nations  lay  prone  in  thy  porches, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

When,  with  flame  all  around  him  aspirant, 

Stood  flushed,  as  a  harp-player  stands, 
The  implacable  beautiful  tyrant, 

Rose-crowned,  having  death  in  his  hands; 
And  a  sound  as  the  sound  of  loud  water 

Smote  far  through  the  flight  of  the  fires, 
And  mixed  with  the  lightning  of  slaughter 

A  thunder  of  lyres. 

Dost  thou  dream  of  what  was  and  no  more  is, 

The  old  kingdoms  of  earth  and  the  kings? 
Dost  thou  hunger  for  these  things,  Dolores, 

For  these,  in  a  world  of  new  things? 
But  thy  bosom  no  fasts  could  emaciate, 

No  hunger  compel  to  complain 
Those  lips  that  no  bloodshed  could  satiate, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

As  of  old  when  the  world's  heart  was  lighter, 

Through  thy  garments  the  grace  of  thee  glows, 
The  white  wealth  of  thy  body  made  whiter 

By  the  blushes  of  amorous  blows, 
And  seamed  with  sharp  lips  and  fierce  fingers, 

And  branded  by  kisses  that  bruise; 
When  all  shall  be  gone  that  now  lingers, 

Ah,  what  shall  we  lose? 


DOLORES 

Thou  wert  fair  in  the  fearless  old  fashion, 

And  thy  limbs  are  as  melodies  yet, 
And  move  to  the  music  of  passion 

With  lithe  and  lascivious  regret. 
What  ailed  us,  O  gods,  to  desert  you 

For  creeds  that  refuse  and  restrain? 
Come  down  and  redeem  us  from  virtue, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

All  shrines  that  were  Vestal  are  flameless; 

But  the  flame  has  not  fallen  from  this; 
Though  obscure  be  the  god,  and  though  nameless 

The  eyes  and  the  hair  that  we  kiss; 
Low  fires  that  love  sits  by  and  forges 

Fresh  heads  for  his  arrows  and  thine; 
Hair  loosened  and  soiled  in  mid  orgies 

With  kisses  and  wine. 

Thy  skin  changes  country  and  colour, 

And  shrivels  or  swells  to  a  snake's. 
Let  it  brighten  and  bloat  and  grow  duller, 

We  know  it,  the  flames  and  the  flakes, 
Red  brands  on  it  smitten  and  bitten, 

Round  skies  where  a  star  is  a  stain, 
And  the  leaves  with  thy  litanies  written, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

On  thy  bosom  though  many  a  kiss  be, 
There  are  none  such  as  knew  it  of  old. 

Was  it  Alciphron  once  or  Arisbe, 
Male  ringlets  or  feminine  gold, 
176 


DOLORES 

That  thy  lips  met  with  under  the  statue, 
Whence  a  look  shot  out  sharp  after  thieves 

From  the  eyes  of  the  garden-god  at  you 
Across  the  fig-leaves? 

Then  still,  through  dry  seasons  and  moister, 

One  god  had  a  wreath  to  his  shrine; 
Then  love  was  the  pearl  of  his  oyster,1 

And  Venus  rose  red  out  of  wine. 
We  have  all  done  amiss,  choosing  rather 

Such  loves  as  the  wise  gods  disdain ; 
Intercede  for  us  thou  with  thy  father, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

In  spring  he  had  crowns  of  his  garden, 

Red  corn  in  the  heat  of  the  year, 
Then  hoary  green  olives  that  harden 

When  the  grape-blossom  freezes  with  fear; 
And  milk-budded  myrtles  with  Venus 

And  vine-leaves  with  Bacchus  he  trod; 
And  ye  said,  "We  have  seen,  he  hath  seen  us, 

A  visible  God." 

What  broke  off  the  garlands  that  girt  you? 

What  sundered  you  spirit  and  clay? 
Weak  sins  yet  alive  are  as  virtue 

To  the  strength  of  the  sins  of  that  day. 

1  "  Nam  te  praecipu6  in  suis  urbibus  colit  ora 
Hellespontia,  casteris  ostreosior  oris." 

CATULL.  Carm.  xviii. 
177 


DOLORES 

For  dried  is  the  blood  of  thy  lover, 

Ipsithilla,  contracted  the  vein ; 
Cry  aloud,  "Will  he  rise  and  recover, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain?" 

Cry  aloud;  for  the  old  world  is  broken: 

Cry  out;  for  the  Phrygian  is  priest, 
And  rears  not  the  bountiful  token 

And  spreads  not  the  fatherly  feast. 
From  the  midmost  of  Ida,  from  shady 

Recesses  that  murmur  at  morn, 
They  have  brought  and  baptized  her,  Our  Lady, 

A  goddess  new-born. 

And  the  chaplets  of  old  are  above  us, 

And  the  oyster-bed  teems  out  of  reach; 
Old  poets  outsing  and  outlove  us, 

And  Catullus  makes  mouths  at  our  speech. 
Who  shall  kiss,  in  thy  father's  own  city, 

With  such  lips  as  he  sang  with,  again? 
Intercede  for  us  all  of  thy  pity, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Out  of  Dindymus  heavily  laden 

Her  lions  draw  bound  and  unfed 
A  mother,  a  mortal,  a  maiden, 

A  queen  over  death  and  the  dead 
She  is  cold,  and  her  habit  is  lowly, 

Her  temple  of  branches  and  sods; 
Most  fruitful  and  virginal,  holy, 

A  mother  of  gods. 

178 


DOLORES 

She  hath  wasted  with  fire  thine  high  places, 

She  hath  hidden  and  marred  and  made  sad 
The  fair  limbs  of  the  Loves,  the  fair  faces 

Of  gods  that  were  goodly  and  glad. 
She  slays,  and  her  hands  are  not  bloody; 

She  moves  as  a  moon  in  the  wane, 
White-robed,  and  thy  raiment  is  ruddy, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

They  shall  pass  and  their  places  be  taken, 

The  gods  and  the  priests  that  are  pure. 
They  shall  pass,  and  shalt  thou  not  be  shaken? 

They  shall  perish,  and  shalt  thou  endure? 
Death  laughs,  breathing  close  and  relentless 

In  the  nostrils  and  eyelids  of  lust, 
With  a  pinch  in  his  fingers  of  scentless 

And  delicate  dust. 

But  the  worm  shall  revive  thee  with  kisses; 

Thou  shalt  change  and  transmute  as  a  god, 
As  the  rod  to  a  serpent  that  hisses, 

As  the  serpent  again  to  a  rod. 
Thy  life  shall  not  cease  though  thou  doff  it ; 

Thou  shalt  live  until  evil  be  slain, 
And  good  shall  die  first,  said  thy  prophet, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Did  he  lie?  did  he  laugh?  does  he  know  it, 
Now  he  lies  out  of  reach,  out  of  breath, 

Thy  prophet,  thy  preacher,  thy  poet, 
Sin's  child  by  incestuous  Death  ? 
179 


DOLORES 

Did  he  find  out  in  fire  at  his  waking, 
Or  discern  as  his  eyelids  lost  light, 

When  the  bands  of  the  body  were  breaking 
And  all  came  in  sight  ? 

Who  has  known  all  the  evil  before  us, 

Or  the  tyrannous  secrets  of  time? 
Though  we  match  not  the  dead  men  that  bore  us 

At  a  song,  at  a  kiss,  at  a  crime — 
Though  the  heathen  outface  and  outlive  us, 

And  our  lives  and  our  longings  are  twain — 
Ah,  forgive  us  our  virtues,  forgive  us, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

Who  are  we  that  embalm  and  embrace  thee 

With  spices  and  savours  of  song? 
What  is  time,  that  his  children  should  face  thee  ? 

What  am  I,  that  my  lips  do  thee  wrong? 
I  could  hurt  thee — but  pain  would  delight  thee; 

Or  caress  thee — but  love  would  repel; 
And  the  lovers  whose  lips  would  excite  thee 

Are  serpents  in  hell. 

Who  now  shall  content  thee  as  they  did, 

Thy  lovers,  when  temples  were  built 
And  the  hair  of  the  sacrifice  braided 

And  the  blood  of  the  sacrifice  spilt, 
In  Lampsacus  fervent  with  faces, 

In  Aphaca  red  from  thy  reign, 
Who  embraced  thee  with  awful  embraces, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain  ? 

i  So 


DOLORES 

Where  are  they,  Cotytto  or  Venus, 

Astarte  or  Ashtaroth,  where  ? 
Do  their  hands  as  we  touch  come  between  us? 

Is  the  breath  of  them  hot  in  thy  hair? 
From  their  lips  have  thy  lips  taken  fever, 

With  the  blood  of  their  bodies  grown  red? 
Hast  thou  left  upon  earth  a  believer 

If  these  men  are  dead? 

They  were  purple  of  raiment  and  golden, 

Filled  full  of  thee,  fiery  with  wine, 
Thy  lovers,  in  haunts  unbeholden, 

In  marvellous  chambers  of  thine. 
They  are  fled,  and  their  footprints  escape  us, 

Who  appraise  thee,  adore,  and  abstain, 
O  daughter  of  Death  and  Priapus, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain. 

What  ails  us  to  fear  overmeasure, 

To  praise  thee  with  timorous  breath, 
O  mistress  and  mother  of  pleasure, 

The  one  thing  as  certain  as  death? 
We  shall  change  as  the  things  that  we  cherish, 

Shall  fade  as  they  faded  before, 
As  foam  upon  water  shall  perish, 

As  sand  upon  shore. 

We  shall  know  what  the  darkness  discovers, 
If  the  grave-pit  be  shallow  or  deep; 

And  our  fathers  of  old,  and  our  lovers, 
We  shall  know  if  they  sleep  not  or  sleep. 
181 


DOLORES 

We  shall  see  whether  hell  be  not  heaven, 
Find  out  whether  tares  be  not  grain, 

And  the  joys  of  thee  seventy  times  seven, 
Our  Lady  of  Pain. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

HERE,  where  the  world  is  quiet, 
Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
For  harvest -time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep, 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour, 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer' 
183 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 
Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 
184 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal, 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 
She  waits  for  all  men  born; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 
The  life  of  fruits  and  corn; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 

And  all  disastrous  things; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
185 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  for  ever; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light: 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


HESPERIA 

OUT  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the  sea 

without  shore  is, 
Full  of  the  sunset,  and  sad,  if  at  all,   with  the 

fulness  of  joy, 
As  a  wind  sets  in  with  the  autumn  that  blows  from 

the  region  of  stories, 
Blows  with  a  perfume  of  songs  and  of  memories 

beloved  from  a  boy, 
Blows  from  the  capes  of  the  past  oversea  to  the  bays 

of  the  present, 
Filled  as  with  shadow  of  sound  with  the  pulse  of 

invisible  feet, 
Far  out  to  the  shallows  and  straits  of  the  future,  by 

rough  ways  or  pleasant, 
Is  it  thither  the  wind's  wings  beat  ?  is  it  hither  to 

me,  O  my  sweet  ? 
For  thee,  in  the  stream  of  the  deep  tide- wind  blowing 

in  with  the  water, 
Thee  I  behold  as  a  bird  borne  in  with  the  wind 

from  the  west, 
Straight  from  the  sunset,  across  white  waves  whence 

rose  as  a  daughter 

Venus  thy  mother,  in  years  when  the  world  was  a 
water  at  rest. 

is  187 


HESPERIA 

Out  of  the  distance  of  dreams,  as  a  dream  that 

abides  after  slumber, 
Strayed  from  the  fugitive  flock  of  the  night,  when 

the  moon  overhead 
Wanes  in  the  wan  waste  heights  of  the  heaven,  and 

stars  without  number 
Die  without  sound,  and  are  spent  like  lamps  that 

are  burnt  by  the  dead, 
Comes  back  to  me,  stays  by  me,  lulls  me  with  touch 

of  forgotten  caresses, 
One  warm  dream  clad  about  with  a  fire  as  of  life 

that  endures; 
The  delight  of  thy  face,  and  the  sound  of  thy  feet, 

and  the  wind  of  thy  tresses, 
And  all  of  a  man  that  regrets,  and  all  of  a  maid 

that  allures. 
But  thy  bosom  is  warm  for  my  face  and  profound  as 

a  manifold  flower, 
Thy  silence  as  music,  thy  voice  as  an  odour  that 

fades  in  a  flame; 
Not  a  dream,  not  a  dream  is  the  kiss  of  thy  mouth, 

and  the  bountiful  hour 
That  makes  me  forget  what  was  sin,  and  would 

make  me  forget  were  it  shame. 
Thine  eyes  that  are  quiet,  thine  hands  that  are  tender, 

thy  lips  that  are  loving, 
Comfort  and  cool  me  as  dew  in  the  dawn  of  a  moon 

like  a  dream; 
And  my  heart  yearns  baffled  and  blind,  moved  vainly 

toward  thee,  and  moving 

As  the  refluent  seaweed  moves  in  the  languid 
exuberant  stream, 

188 


HESPERIA 

Fair  as  a  rose  is  on  earth,  as  a  rose  under  water  in 

prison, 
That  stretches  and  swings  to  the  slow  passionate 

pulse  of  the  sea, 
Closed  up  from  the  air  and  the  sun,  but  alive,  as  a 

ghost  rearisen, 
Pale  as  the  love  that  revives  as  a  ghost  rearisen 

in  me. 
From  the  bountiful  infinite  west,  from  the  happy 

memorial  places 
Full  of  the  stately  repose  and  the  lordly  delight  of 

the  dead, 
Where  the  fortunate  islands  are  lit  with  the  light  of 

ineffable  faces, 
And  the  sound  of  a  sea  without  wind  is  about  them, 

and  sunset  is  red, 
Come  back  to  redeem  and  release  me  from  love  that 

recalls  and  represses, 
That  cleaves  to  my  flesh  as  a  flame,  till  the  serpent 

has  eaten  his  fill; 
From  the  bitter  delights  of  the  dark,  and  the  feverish, 

the  furtive  caresses 
That  murder  the  youth  in  a  man  or  ever  his  heart 

have  its  will. 
Thy  lips  cannot  laugh  and  thine  eyes  cannot  weep; 

thou  art  pale  as  a  rose  is, 
Paler  and  sweeter  than  leaves  that  cover  the  blush 

of  the  bud; 
And  the  heart  of  the  flower  is  compassion,  and  pity 

the  core  it  encloses, 

Pity,  not  love,  that  is  born  of  the  breath  and 
decays  with  the  blood. 
189 


HESPERIA 

As  the  cross  that  a  wild  nun  clasps  till  the  edge  of  it 

bruises  her  bosom, 
So  love  wounds  as  we  grasp  it,  and  blackens  and 

burns  as  a  flame; 
I  have  loved  overmuch  in  my  life ;  when  the  live  bud 

bursts  with  the  blossom, 
Bitter  as  ashes  or  tears  is  the  fruit,  and  the  wine 

thereof  shame. 
As  a  heart  that  its  anguish  divides  is  the  green  bud 

cloven  asunder; 
As  the  blood  of  a  man  self-slain  is  the  flush  of  the 

leaves  that  allure; 
And  the  perfume  as  poison  and  wine  to  the  brain,  a 

delight  and  a  wonder; 
And  the  thorns  are  too  sharp  for  a  boy,  too  slight 

for  a  man,  to  endure. 
Too  soon  did  I  love  it,  and  lost  love's  rose;  and 

I  cared  not  for  glory's: 
Only  the  blossoms  of  sleep  and  of  pleasure  were 

mixed  in  my  hair. 
Was  it  myrtle  or  poppy  thy  garland  was  woven  with, 

0  my  Dolores? 

Was  it  pallor  of  slumber,  or  blush  as  of  blood,  that 

1  found  in  thee  fair? 

For  desire  is  a  respite  from  love,  and  the  flesh  not 

the  heart  is  her  fuel; 
She  was  sweet  to  me  once,  who  am  fled  and  escaped 

from  the  rage  of  her  reign ; 
Who  behold  as  of  old  time  at  hand  as  I  turn,  with 

her  mouth  growing  cruel, 

And  flushed  as  with  wine  with  the  blood  of  her 
lovers,  Our  Lady  of  Pain. 
190 


HESPERIA 

Low  down  where  the  thicket  is  thicker  with  thorns 

than  with  leaves  in  the  summer, 
In  the  brake  is  a  gleaming  of  eyes  and  a  hissing  of 

tongues  that  I  knew; 
And  the  lithe  long  throats  of  her  snakes  reach  round 

her,  their  mouths  overcome  her, 
And  her  lips  grow  cool  with  their  foam,   made 

moist  as  a  desert  with  dew. 
With  the  thirst  and  the  hunger  of  lust  though  her 

beautiful  lips  be  so  bitter, 
With  the  cold  foul  foam  of  the  snakes  they  soften 

and  redden  and  smile; 
And  her  fierce  mouth  sweetens,  her  eyes  wax  wide 

and  her  eyelashes  glitter, 
And  she  laughs  with  a  savour  of  blood  in  her  face, 

and  a  savour  of  guile. 
She  laughs,  and  her  hands  reach  hither,  her  hair 

blows  hither  and  hisses, 
As  a  low  lit  flame  in  a  wind,  back-blown  till  it 

shudder  and  leap; 
Let  her  lips  not  again  lay  hold  on  my  soul,  nor  her 

poisonous  kisses, 
To  consume  it  alive  and  divide  from  thy  bosom, 

Our  Lady  of  Sleep. 
Ah  daughter  of  sunset  and  slumber,  if  now  it  return 

into  prison, 
Who  shall  redeem  it  anew?  but  we,  if  thou  wilt, 

let  us  fly; 
Let  us  take  to  us,  now  that  the  white  skies  thrill  with 

a  moon  unarisen, 

Swift  horses  of  fear  or  of  love,  take  flight  and 
depart  and  not  die. 
191 


HESPERIA 

They  are  swifter  than  dreams,  they  are  stronger  tha-n 

death;  there  is  none  that  hath  ridden, 
None  that  shall  ride  in  the  dim  strange  ways  of  his 

life  as  we  ride; 
By  the  meadows  of  memory,  the  highlands  of  hope, 

and  the  shore  that  is  hidden, 
Where  life  breaks  loud  and  unseen,  a  sonorous 

invisible  tide; 
By  the  sands  where  sorrow  has  trodden,  the  salt 

pools  bitter  and  sterile, 
By  the  thundering  reef  and  the  low  sea-wall  and 

the  channel  of  years, 
Our  wild  steeds  press  on  the  night,  strain   hard 

through  pleasure  and  peril, 
Labour  and  listen  and  pant  not  or  pause  for  the 

peril  that  nears; 
And  the  sound  of  them  trampling  the  way  cleaves 

night  as  an  arrow  asunder, 
And  slow  by  the  sand-hill  and  swift  by  the  down 

with  its  glimpses  of  grass, 
Sudden  and  steady  the  music,  as  eight  hoofs  trample 

and  thunder, 
Rings  in  the  ear  of  the  low  blind  wind  of  the  night 

as  we  pass; 
Shrill  shrieks  in  our  faces  the  blind  bland  air  that  was 

mute  as  a  maiden, 
Stung  into  storm  by  the  speed  of  our  passage,  and 

deaf  where  we  past; 
And  our  spirits  too  burn  as  we  bound,  thine  holy  but 

mine  heavy-laden, 

As  we  burn  with  the  fire  of  our  flight;  ah  love, 
shall  we  win  at  the  last  ? 
192 


LOVE  AT   SEA 

WE  are  in  love's  land  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay, 

Or  sail  or  row? 

There's  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  May; 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go? 

Our  landwind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kissed  to  death 

And  joys  that  were; 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose; 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where. 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day- 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  Loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves, 

Our  decks  fine  gold; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair, 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day- 


LOVE  AT  SEA 

Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 

Or  fields  near  home? 
Or  where  the  fire-flowers  blow, 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam? 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day — 

Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove. 

One  heart,  one  hand. 
— A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 

No  maiden  land. 

Imitated  from  Theophile  Gautier. 


APRIL 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  THE  VIDAME  DE  CHARTRES 
12—? 

WHEN  the  fields  catch  flower 
And  the  underwood  is  green, 

And  from  bower  unto  bower 
The  songs  of  the  birds  begin, 
I  sing  with  sighing  between. 

When  I  laugh  and  sing, 

I  am  heavy  at  heart  for  my  sin; 

I  am  sad  in  the  spring 

For  my  love  that  I  shall  not  win, 

For  a  foolish  thing. 

This  profit  I  have  of  my  woe, 

That  I  know,  as  I  sing, 
I  know  he  will  needs  have  it  so 

Who  is  master  and  king, 

Who  is  lord  of  the  spirit  of  spring. 
I  will  serve  her  and  will  not  spare 

Till  her  pity  awake 
Who  is  good,  who  is  pure,  who  is  fair, 

Even  her  for  whose  sake 
Love  hath  ta'en  me  and  slain  unaware. 
195 


APRIL 

0  my  lord,  O  Love, 

I  have  laid  my  life  at  thy  feet; 
Have  thy  will  thereof, 

Do  as  it  please  thee  with  it, 

For  what  shall  please  thee  is  sweet. 

1  am  come  unto  thee 

To  do  thee  service,  O  Love; 
Yet  cannot  I  see 

Thou  wilt  take  any  pity  thereof, 
Any  mercy  on  me. 

But  the  grace  I  have  long  time  sought 

Comes  never  in  sight, 
If  in  her  it  abideth  not, 

Through  thy  mercy  and  might, 

Whose  heart  is  the  world's  delight. 
Thou  hast  sworn  without  fail  I  shall  die, 

For  my  heart  is  set 
On  what  hurts  me,  I  wot  not  why, 

But  cannot  forget 
What  I  love,  what  I  sing  for  and  sigh. 

She  is  worthy  of  praise, 

For  this  grief  of  her  giving  is  worth 
All  the  joy  of  my  days 

That  lie  between  death's  day  and  birth, 

All  the  lordship  of  things  upon  earth. 
Nay,  what  have  I  said? 

I  would  not  be  glad  if  I  could; 
My  dream  and  my  dread 

Are  of  her,  and  for  her  sake  I  would 
That  my  life  were  fled. 
196 


APRIL 

Lo,  sweet,  if  I  durst  not  pray  to  you, 

Then  were  I  dead; 
If  I  sang  not  a  little  to  say  to  you, 

(Could  it  be  said) 

O  my  love,  how  my  heart  would  be  fed; 
Ah  sweet  who  hast  hold  of  my  heart, 

For  thy  love's  sake  I  live, 
Do  but  tell  me,  ere  either  depart, 

What  a  lover  may  give 
For  a  woman  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  lovers  that  disbelieve, 

False  rumours  shall  grieve 
And  evil-speaking  shall  part. 


BEFORE   PARTING 

A  MONTH  or  twain  to  live  on  honeycomb 
Is  pleasant;  but  one  tires  of  scented  time, 
Cold  sweet  recurrence  of  accepted  rhyme, 
And  that  strong  purple  under  juice  and  foam 
Where  the  wine's  heart  has  burst; 
Nor  feel  the  latter  kisses  like  the  first. 

Once  yet,  this  poor  one  time;  I  will  not  pray 

Even  to  change  the  bitterness  of  it, 

The  bitter  taste  ensuing  on  the  sweet, 

To  make  your  tears  fall  where  your  soft  hair  lay 

All  blurred  and  heavy  in  some  perfumed  wise 

Over  my  face  and  eyes. 

And  yet  who  knows  what  end  the  scythed  wheat 
Makes  of  its  foolish  poppies'  mouths  of  red? 
These  were  not  sown,  these  are  not  harvested, 
They  grow  a  month  and  are  cast  under  feet 
And  none  has  care  thereof, 
As  none  has  care  of  a  divided  love. 

I  know  each  shadow  of  your  lips  by  rote, 
Each  change  of  love  in  eyelids  and  eyebrows; 
The  fashion  of  fair  temples  tremulous 
198 


BEFORE  PARTING 

With  tender  blood,  and  colour  of  your  throat; 
I  know  not  how  love  is  gone  out  of  this, 
Seeing  that  all  was  his. 

Love's  likeness  there  endures  upon  all  these: 

But  out  of  these  one  shall  not  gather  love. 

Day  hath  not  strength  nor  the  night  shade  enough 

To  make  love  whole  and  fill  his  lips  with  ease, 

As  some  bee-builded  cell 

Feels  at  filled  lips  the  heavy  honey  swell. 

I  know  not  how  this  last  month  leaves  your  hair 

Less  full  of  purple  colour  and  hid  spice, 

And  that  luxurious  trouble  of  closed  eyes 

Is  mixed  with  meaner  shadow  and  waste  care; 

And  love,  kissed  out  by  pleasure,  seems  not  yet 

Worth  patience  to  regret. 


THE   SUNDEW 

A  LITTLE  marsh-plant,  yellow  green, 
And  pricked  at  lip  with  tender  red. 
Tread  close,  and  either  way  you  tread 
Some  faint  black  water  jets  between 
Lest  you  should  bruise  the  curious  head. 

A  live  thing  maybe ;  who  shall  know  ? 
The  summer  knows  and  suffers  it; 
For  the  cool  moss  is  thick  and  sweet 
Each  side,  and  saves  the  blossom  so 
That  it  lives  out  the  long  June  heat. 

The  deep  scent  of  the  heather  burns 
About  it;  breathless  though  it  be, 
Bow  down  and  worship;  more  than  we 
Is  the  least  flower  whose  life  returns, 
Least  weed  renascent  in  the  sea. 

We  are  vexed  and  cumbered  in  earth's  sight 
With  wants,  with  many  memories; 
These  see  their  mother  what  she  is, 
Glad-growing,  till  August  leave  more  bright 
The  apple-coloured  cranberries, 
200 


THE  SUNDEW 

Wind  blows  and  bleaches  the  strong  grass, 
Blown  all  one  way  to  shelter  it 
From  trample  of  strayed  kine,  with  feet 
Felt  heavier  than  the  moorhen  was, 
Strayed  up  past  patches  of  wild  wheat. 

You  call  it  sundew:  how  it  grows, 
If  with  its  colour  it  have  breath, 
If  life  taste  sweet  to  it,  if  death 
Pain  its  soft  petal,  no  man  knows: 
Man  has  no  sight  or  sense  that  saith. 

My  sundew,  grown  of  gentle  days, 
In  these  green  miles  the  spring  begun 
Thy  growth  ere  April  had  half  done 
With  the  soft  secret  of  her  ways 
Or  June  made  ready  for  the  sun. 

0  red-lipped  mouth  of  marsh-flower, 

1  have  a  secret  halved  with  thee. 
The  name  that  is  love's  name  to  me 
Thou  knowest,  and  the  face  of  her 
Who  is  my  festival  to  see. 

The  hard  sun,  as  thy  petals  knew, 
Coloured  the  heavy  moss-water: 
Thou  wert  not  worth  green  midsummer 
Nor  fit  to  live  to  August  blue, 
O  sundew,  not  remembering  her. 


FELISE 

Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antanf 

WHAT  shall  be  said  between  us  here 
Among  the  downs,  between  the  trees, 

In  fields  that  knew  our  feet  last  year, 
In  sight  of  quiet  sands  and  seas, 
This  year,  Felise? 

Who  knows  what  word  were  best  to  say  ? 

For  last  year's  leaves  lie  dead  and  red 
On  this  sweet  day,  in  this  green  May, 

And  barren  corn  makes  bitter  bread. 

What  shall  be  said? 

Here  as  last  year  the  fields  begin, 
A  fire  of  flowers  and  glowing  grass; 

The  old  fields  we  laughed  and  lingered  in, 
Seeing  each  our  souls  in  last  year's  glass, 
Felise,  alas! 

Shall  we  not  laugh,  shall  we  not  weep, 
Not  we,  though  this  be  as  it  is  ? 

For  love  awake  or  love  asleep 
Ends  in  a  laugh,  a  dream,  a  kiss, 
A  song  like  this. 

202 


FELISE 

I  that  have  slept  awake,  and  you 

Sleep,  who  last  year  were  well  awake. 

Though  love  do  all  that  love  can  do, 
My  heart  will  never  ache  or  break 
For  your  heart's  sake. 

The  great  sea,  faultless  as  a  flower, 

Throbs,  trembling  under  beam  and  breeze, 

And  laughs  with  love  of  the  amorous  hour. 
I  found  you  fairer  once,  Felise, 
Than  flowers  or  seas. 

We  played  at  bondsman  and  at  queen; 

But  as  the  days  change  men  change  too; 
I  find  the  grey  sea's  notes  of  green, 

The  green  sea's  fervent  flakes  of  blue, 

More  fair  than  you. 

Your  beauty  is  not  over  fair 

Now  in  mine  eyes,  who  am  grown  up  wise. 
The  smell  of  flowers  in  all  your  hair 

Allures  not  now;  no  sigh  replies 

If  your  heart  sighs. 

But  you  sigh  seldom,  you  sleep  sound, 
You  find  love's  new  name  good  enough. 

Less  sweet  I  find  it  than  I  found 
The  sweetest  name  that  ever  love 
Grew  weary  of. 

My  snake  with  bright  bland  eyes,  my  snake 
Grown  tame  and  glad  to  be  caressed, 
16  203 


FELISE 

With  lips  athirst  for  mine  to  slake 
Their  tender  fever!  who  had  guessed 
You  loved  me  best  ? 

I  had  died  for  this  last  year,  to  know 
You  loved  me.     Who  shall  turn  on  fate? 

I  care  not  if  love  come  or  go 

Now,  though  your  love  seek  mine  for  mate. 
It  is  too  late. 

The  dust  of  many  strange  desires 
Lies  deep  between  us;  in  our  eyes 

Dead  smoke  of  perishable  fires 
Flickers,  a  fume  in  air  and  skies, 
A  steam  of  sighs. 

You  loved  me  and  you  loved  me  not; 

A  little,  much,  and  overmuch. 
Will  you  forget  as  I  forgot  ? 

Let  all  dead  things  lie  dead;  none  such 

Are  soft  to  touch. 

I  love  you  and  I  do  not  love, 

Too  much,  a  little,  not  at  all; 
Too  much,  and  never  yet  enough. 

Birds  quick  to  fledge  and  fly  at  call 

Are  quick  to  fall. 

And  these  love  longer  now  than  men, 
And  larger  loves  than  ours  are  these. 

No  diver  brings  up  love  again 

Dropped  once,  my  beautiful  Felise 
In  such  cold  seas. 

204 


FELISE 

Gone  deeper  than  all  plummets  sound, 
Where  in  the  dim  green  dayless  day 

The  life  of  such  dead  things  lies  bound 
As  the  sea  feeds  on,  wreck  and  stray 
And  castaway. 

Can  I  forget?  yea,  that  can  I, 

And  that  can  all  men;  so  will  you, 

Alive,  or  later,  when  you  die. 

Ah,  but  the  love  you  plead  was  true? 
Was  mine  not  too  ? 

I  loved  you  for  that  name  of  yours 
Long  ere  we  met,  and  long  enough. 

Now  that  one  thing  of  all  endures — 
The  sweetest  name  that  ever  love 
Waxed  weary  of. 

Like  colours  in  the  sea,  like  flowers, 
Like  a  cat's  splendid  circled  eyes 

That  wax  and  wane  with  love  for  hours, 
Green  as  green  flame,  blue-grey  like  skies, 
And  soft  like  sighs — 

And  all  these  only  like  your  name, 
And  your  name  full  of  all  of  these. 

I  say  it,  and  it  sounds  the  same — 
Save  that  I  say  it  now  at  ease, 
Your  name,  Felise. 

I  said  "she  must  be  swift  and  white, 
And  subtly  warm,  and  half  perverse, 
205 


FELISE 

And  sweet  like  sharp  soft  fruit  to  bite, 
And  like  a  snake's  love  lithe  and  fierce." 
Men  have  guessed  worse. 

What  was  the  song  I  made  of  you 
Here  where  the  grass  forgets  our  feet 

As  afternoon  forgets  the  dew? 

Ah  that  such  sweet  things  should  be  fleet, 
Such  fleet  things  sweet! 

As  afternoon  forgets  the  dew, 
As  time  in  time  forgets  all  men, 

As  our  old  place  forgets  us  two, 

Who  might  have  turned  to  one  thing  then, 
But  not  again. 


O  lips  that  mine  have  grown  into 

Like  April's  kissing  May, 
O  fervent  eyelids  letting  through 
Those  eyes  the  greenest  of  things  blue, 

The  bluest  of  things  grey, 

If  you  were  I  and  I  were  you, 
How  could  I  love  you,  say? 
How  could  the  roseleaf  love  the  rue, 
The  day  love  nightfall  and  her  dew, 
Though  night  may  love  the  day? 


You  loved  it  may  be  more  than  I ; 

We  know  not;  love  is  hard  to  seize, 
And  all  things  are  not  good  to  try; 

And  lifelong  loves  the  worst  of  these 

For  us,  Fe"lise. 

206 


FELISE 

Ah,  take  the  season  and  have  done, 
Love  well  the  hour  and  let  it  go: 

Two  souls  may  sleep  and  wake  up  one, 
Or  dream  they  wake  and  find  it  so, 
And  then — you  know. 

Kiss  me  once  hard  as  though  a  flame 
Lay  on  my  lips  and  made  them  fire; 

The  same  lips  now,  and  not  the  same; 
What  breath  shall  fill  and  re-inspire 
A  dead  desire? 

The  old  song  sounds  hollower  in  mine  ear 
Than  thin  keen  sounds  of  dead  men's  speech— 

A  noise  one  hears  and  would  not  hear; 
Too  strong  to  die,  too  weak  to  reach 
From  wave  to  beach. 

We  stand  on  either  side  the  sea,    < 

Stretch  hands,  blow  kisses,  laugh  and  lean 

I  toward  you,  you  toward  me; 

But  what  hears  either  save  the  keen 
Grey  sea  between? 

A  year  divides  us,  love  from  love, 

Though  you  love  now,  though  I  loved  then. 
The  gulf  is  strait,  but  deep  enough; 

Who  shall  recross,  who  among  men 

Shall  cross  again? 

Love  was  a  jest  last  year,  you  said, 
And  what  lives  surely,  surely  dies. 
207 


FELISE 

Even  so;  but  now  that  love  is  dead, 
Shall  love  rekindle  from  wet  eyes, 
From  subtle  sighs? 

For  many  loves  are  good  to  see; 

Mutable  loves,  and  loves  perverse; 
But  there  is  nothing,  nor  shall  be, 

So  sweet,  so  wicked,  but  my  verse 

Can  dream  of  worse. 

For  we  that  sing  and  you  that  love 
Know  that  which  man  may,  only  we. 

The  rest  live  under  us;  above, 

Live  the  great  gods  in  heaven,  and  see 
What  things  shall  be. 

So  this  thing  is  and  must  be  so; 

For  man  dies,  and  love  also  dies. 
Though  yet  love's  ghost  moves  to  and  fro 

The  sea-green  mirrors  of  your  eyes, 

And  laughs,  and  lies. 

Eyes  coloured  like  a  water-flower, 

And  deeper  than  the  green  sea's  glass; 

Eyes  that  remember  one  sweet  hour — 
In  vain  we  swore  it  should  not  pass; 
In  vain,  alas! 

Ah  my  Felise,  if  love  or  sin, 

If  shame  or  fear  could  hold  it  fast, 

Should  we  not  hold  it  ?     Love  wears  thin , 
And  they  laugh  well  who  laugh  the  last. 
Is  it  not  past  ? 

208 


FELISE 

The  gods,  the  gods  are  stronger;  time 
Falls  down  before  them,  all  men's  knees 

Bow,  all  men's  prayers  and  sorrows  climb 
Like  incense  towards  them-  yea,  for  these 
Are  gods,  Felise. 

Immortal  are  they,  clothed  with  powers, 

Not  to  be  comforted  at  all; 
Lords  over  all  the  fruitless  hours; 

Too  great  to  appease,  too  high  to  appal, 

Too  far  to  call. 

For  none  shall  move  the  most  high  gods, 
Who  are  most  sad,  being  cruel;  none 

Shall  break  or  take  away  the  rods 

Wherewith  they  scourge  us,  not  as  one 
That  smites  a  son. 

By  many  a  name  of  many  a  creed 

We  have  called  upon  them,  since  the  sands 
Fell  through  time's  hour-glass  first,  a  seed 

Of  life;  and  out  of  many  lands 

Have  we  stretched  hands. 

When  have  they  heard  us?  who  hath  known 
Their  faces,  climbed  unto  their  feet, 

Felt  them  and  found  them?     Laugh  or  groan, 
Doth  heaven  remurmur  and  repeat 
Sad  sounds  or  sweet  ? 

Do  the  stars  answer?  in  the  night 
Have  ye  found  comfort  ?  or  by  day 
209 


FELISE 

Have  ye  seen  gods?     What  hope,  what  light, 
Falls  from  the  farthest  starriest  way 
On  you  that  pray  ? 

Are  the  skies  wet  because  we  weep, 

Or  fair  because  of  any  mirth? 
Cry  out;  they  are  gods;  perchance  they  sleep; 

Cry;  thou  shalt  know  what  prayers  are  worth, 

Thou  dust  and  earth. 

O  earth,  thou  art  fair;  O  dust,  thou  art  great; 

O  laughing  lips  and  lips  that  mourn, 
Pray,  till  ye  feel  the  exceeding  weight 

O  God's  intolerable  scorn, 

Not  to  be  borne. 

Behold,  there  is  no  grief  like  this; 

The  barren  blossom  of  thy  prayer, 
Thou  shalt  find  out  how  sweet  it  is. 

O  fools  and  blind,  what  seek  ye  there, 

High  up  in  the  air? 

Ye  must  have  gods,  the  friends  of  men, 

Merciful  gods,  compassionate, 
And  these  shall  answer  you  again. 

Will  ye  beat  always  at  the  gate, 

Ye  fools  of  fate? 

Ye  fools  and  blind;  for  this  is  sure, 

That  all  ye  shall  not  live,  but  die. 
Lo,  what  thing  have  ye  found  endure? 

Or  what  thing  have  ye  found  on  high 

Past  the  blind  sky  ? 

210 


FELISE 

The  ghosts  of  words  and  dusty  dreams, 
Old  memories,  faiths  infirm  and  dead. 

Ye  fools;  for  which  among  you  deems 
His  prayer  can  alter  green  to  red 
Or  stones  to  bread? 

Why  should  ye  bear  with  hopes  and  fears 
Till  all  these  things  be  drawn  in  one, 

The  sound  of  iron-footed  years, 

And  all  the  oppression  that  is  done 
Under  the  sun  ? 

Ye  might  end  surely,  surely  pass 

Out  of  the  multitude  of  things, 
Under  the  dust,  beneath  the  grass, 

Deep  in  dim  death,  where  no  thought  stings, 

No  record  clings. 

No  memory  more  of  love  or  hate, 
No  trouble,  nothing  that  aspires, 

No  sleepless  labour  thwarting  fate, 
And  thwarted;  where  no  travail  tires, 
Where  no  faith  fires. 

All  passes,  nought  that  has  been  is, 
Things  good  and  evil  have  one  end. 

Can  anything  be  otherwise 

Though  all  men  swear  all  things  would  mend 
With  God  to  friend  ? 

Can  ye  beat  off  one  wave  with  prayer, 
Can  ye  move  mountains  ?  bid  the  flower 
211 


F£LISE 

Take  flight  and  turn  to  a  bird  in  the  air? 
Can  ye  hold  fast  for  shine  or  shower 
One  wingless  hour? 

Ah  sweet,  and  we  too,  can  we  bring 
One  sigh  back,  bid  one  smile  revive? 

Can  God  restore  one  ruined  thing, 
Or  he  who  slays  our  souls  alive 
Make  dead  things  thrive? 

Two  gifts  perforce  he  has  given  us  yet, 

Though  sad  things  stay  and  glad  things  fly; 

Two  gifts  he  has  given  us,  to  forget 
All  glad  and  sad  things  that  go  by, 
And  then  to  die. 

We  know  not  whether  death  be  good, 

But  life  at  least  it  will  not  be: 
Men  will  stand  saddening  as  we  stood, 

Watch  the  same  fields  and  skies  as  we 

And  the  same  sea. 

Let  this  be  said  between  us  here, 

One  love  grows  green  when  one  turns  grey; 
This  year  knows  nothing  of  last  year; 

To-morrow  has  no  more  to  say 

To  yesterday. 

Live  and  let  live,  as  I  will  do, 

Love  and  let  love,  and  so  will  I. 
But,  sweet,  for  me  no  more  with  you: 

Not  while  I  live,  not  though  I  die. 

Good  night,  good  bye. 
212 


AN   INTERLUDE 

IN  the  greenest  growth  of  the  Maytime, 
I  rode  where  the  woods  were  wet, 

Between  the  dawn  and  the  daytime; 
The  spring  was  glad  that  we  met. 

There  was  something  the  season  wanted, 
Though  the  ways  and  the  woods  smelt  sweet; 

The  breath  at  your  lips  that  panted, 
The  pulse  of  the  grass  at  your  feet. 

You  came,  and  the  sun  came  after, 
And  the  green  grew  golden  above; 

And  the  flag-flowers  lightened  with  laughter, 
And  the  meadow-sweet  shook  with  love. 

Your  feet  in  the  full-grown  grasses 
Moved  soft  as  a  weak  wind  blows; 

You  passed  me  as  April  passes, 
With  face  made  out  of  a  rose. 

By  the  stream  where  the  stems  were  slender, 
Your  bright  foot  paused  at  the  sedge; 

It  might  be  to  watch  the  tender 

Light  leaves  in  the  springtime  hedge, 
213 


AN  INTERLUDE 

On  boughs  that  the  sweet  month  blanches 

With  flowery  frost  of  May: 
It  might  be  a  bird  in  the  branches, 

It  might  be  a  thorn  in  the  way. 

I  waited  to  watch  you  linger 

With  foot  drawn  back  from  the  dew, 

Till  a  sunbeam  straight  like  a  ringer 
Struck  sharp  through  the  leaves  at  you. 

And  a  bird  overhead  sang  Follow, 
And  a  bird  to  the  right  sang  Here; 

And  the  arch  of  the  leaves  was  hollow, 
And  the  meaning  of  May  was  clear. 

I  saw  where  the  sun's  hand  pointed, 
I  knew  what  the  bird's  note  said; 

By  the  dawn  and  the  dewfall  anointed, 
You  were  queen  by  the  gold  on  your  head. 

As  the  glimpse  of  a  burnt-out  ember 

Recalls  a  regret  of  the  sun, 
I  remember,  forget,  and  remember 

What  Love  saw  done  and  undone. 

I  remember  the  way  we  parted, 

The  day  and  the  way  we  met; 
You  hoped  we  were  both  broken-hearted, 

And  knew  we  should  both  forget. 

And  May  with  her  world  in  flower 
Seemed  still  to  murmur  and  smile 
214 


AN  INTERLUDE 

As  you  murmured  and  smiled  for  an  hour; 
I  saw  you  turn  at  the  stile. 

A  hand  like  a  white  wood-blossom 
You  lifted,  and  waved,  and  passed, 

With  head  hung  down  to  the  bosom, 
And  pale,  as  it  seemed,  at  last. 

And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  this  is 

That  neither  is  most  to  blame 
If  you've  forgotten  my  kisses 

And  I've  forgotten  your  name. 


HENDECASYLLABICS 

IN  the  month  of  the  long  decline  of  roses 
I,  beholding  the  summer  dead  before  me, 
Set  my  face  to  the  sea  and  journeyed  silent, 
Gazing  eagerly  where  above  the  sea-mark 
Flame  as  fierce  as  the  fervid  eyes  of  lions 
Half  divided  the  eyelids  of  the  sunset; 
Till  I  heard  as  it  were  a  noise  of  waters 
Moving  tremulous  under  feet  of  angels 
Multitudinous,  out  of  all  the  heavens; 
Knew  the  fluttering  wind,  the  fluttered  foliage, 
Shaken  fitfully,  full  of  sound  and  shadow; 
And  saw,  trodden  upon  by  noiseless  angels, 
Long  mysterious  reaches  fed  with  moonlight, 
Sweet  sad  straits  in  a  soft  subsiding  channel, 
Blown  about  by  the  lips  of  winds  I  knew  not, 
Winds  not  born  in  the  north  nor  any  quarter, 
Winds  not  warm  with  the  south  nor  any  sunshine; 
Heard  between  them  a  voice  of  exultation, 
"Lo,  the  summer  is  dead,  the  sun  is  faded, 
Even  like  as  a  leaf  the  year  is  withered, 
All  the  fruits  of  the  day  from  all  her  branches 
Gathered,  neither  is  any  left  to  gather. 
All  the  flowers  are  dead,  the  tender  blossoms, 
All  are  taken  away;  the  season  wasted, 
Like  an  ember  among  the  fallen  ashes. 

216 


HENDECASYLLABICS 

Now  with  light  of  the  winter  days,  with  moonlight, 
Light  of  snow,  and  the  bitter  light  of  hoarfrost, 
We  bring  flowers  that  fade  not  after  autumn, 
Pale  white  chaplets  and  crowns  of  latter  seasons, 
Fair  false  leaves  (but  the  summer  leaves  were  falser), 
Woven  under  the  eyes  of  stars  and  planets 
When  low  light  was  upon  the  windy  reaches 
Where  the  flower  of  foam  was  blown,  a  lily 
Dropt  among  the  sonorous  fruitless  furrows 
And  green  fields  of  the  sea  that  make  no  pasture: 
Since  the  winter  begins,  the  weeping  winter, 
All  whose  flowers  are  tears,  and  round  his  temples 
Iron  blossom  of  frost  is  bound  for  ever." 


ALL  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my  eyelids, 
Shed  not  dew,  nor  shook  nor  unclosed  a  feather, 
Yet  with  lips  shut  close  and  with  eyes  of  iron 
Stood  and  beheld  me. 

Then  to  me  so  lying  awake  a  vision 
Came  without  sleep  over  the  seas  and  touched  me, 
Softly  touched  mine  eyelids  and  lips;  and  I  too, 
Full  of  the  vision, 

Saw  the  white  implacable  Aphrodite, 
Saw  the  hair  unbound  and  the  feet  unsandalled 
Shine  as  fire  of  sunset  on  western  waters; 
Saw  the  reluctant 

Feet,  the  straining  plumes  of  the  doves  that  drew  her, 
Looking  always,  looking  with  necks  reverted, 
Back  to  Lesbos,  back  to  the  hills  whereunder 
Shone  Mitylene; 

Heard  the  flying  feet  of  the  Loves  behind  her 
Make  a  sudden  thunder  upon  the  waters, 
As  the  thunder  flung  from  the  strong  unclosing 
Wings  of  a  great  wind. 
218 


SAPPHICS 

So  the  goddess  fled  from  her  place,  with  awful 
Sound  of  feet  and  thunder  of  wings  around  her; 
While  behind  a  clamour  of  singing  women 
Severed  the  twilight. 

Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  passion! 
All  the  Loves  wept,  listening;  sick  with  anguish, 
Stood  the  crowned  nine  Muses  about  Apollo; 
Fear  was  upon  them, 

While  the  tenth  sang  wonderful  things  they  knew 

not. 

Ah  the  tenth,  the  Lesbian!  the  nine  were  silent, 
None  endured  the  sound  of  her  song  for  weeping; 
Laurel  by  laurel, 

Faded  all  their  crowns;  but  about  her  forehead, 
Round  her  woven  tresses  and  ashen  temples 
White  as  dead  snow,  paler  than  grass  in  summer, 
Ravaged  with  kisses, 

Shone  a  light  of  fire  as  a  crown  for  ever. 

Yea,  almost  the  implacable  Aphrodite 

Paused,  and  almost  wept;  such  a  song  was  that 

song. 
Yea,  by  her  name  too 

Called  her,  saying,  "Turn  to  me,  O  my  Sappho;" 
Yet  she  turned  her  face  from  the  Loves,  she  saw 

not 

Tears  for  laughter  darken  immortal  eyelids, 
Heard  not  about  her 

17  219 


SAPPHICS 

Fearful  fitful  wings  of  the  doves  departing, 
Saw  not  how  the  bosom  of  Aphrodite 
Shook  with  weeping,  saw  not  her  shaken  raiment, 
Saw  not  her  hands  wrung; 

Saw  the  Lesbians  kissing  across  their  smitten 
Lutes  with  lips  more  sweet  than  the  sound  of  lute- 
strings, 

Mouth  to  mouth  and  hand  upon  hand,  her  chosen, 
Fairer  than  all  men; 

Only  saw  the  beautiful  lips  and  fingers, 
Full  of  songs  and  kisses  and  little  whispers, 
Full  of  music;  only  beheld  among  them 
Soar,  as  a  bird  soars 

Newly  fledged,  her  visible  song,  a  marvel, 
Made  of  perfect  sound  and  exceeding  passion, 
Sweetly  shapen,  terrible,  full  of  thunders, 
Clothed  with  the  wind's  wings. 

Then   rejoiced  she,  laughing  with   love,  and  scat- 
tered 

Roses,  awful  roses  of  holy  blossom; 
Then  the  Loves  thronged  sadly  with  hidden  faces 
Round  Aphrodite, 

Then  the  Muses,  stricken  at  heart,  were  silent; 
Yea,  the  gods  waxed  pale;  such  a  song  was  that 

song. 

All  reluctant,  all  with  a  fresh  repulsion, 
Fled  from  before  her. 

220 


SAPPHICS 

All  withdrew  long  since,  and  the  land   was   barren, 
Full  of  fruitless  women  and  music  only. 
Now  perchance,  when  winds  are  assuaged  at  sunset, 
Lulled  at  the  dewfall, 

By  the  grey  sea-side,  un assuaged,  unheard  of, 
Unbeloved,  unseen  in  the  ebb  of  twilight, 
Ghosts  of  outcast  women  return  lamenting, 
Purged  not  in  Lethe, 

Clothed  about  with  flame  and  with  tears,  and  singing 
Songs  that  move  the  heart  of  the  shaken  heaven, 
Songs  that  break  the  heart  of  the  earth  with  pity, 
Hearing,  to  hear  them. 


AT   ELEUSIS 

MEN  of  Eleusis,  ye  that  with  long  staves 
Sit  in  the  market-houses,  and  speak  words 
Made  sweet  with  wisdom  as  the  rare  wine  is 
Thickened  with  honey;  and  ye  sons  of  these 
Who  in  the  glad  thick  streets  go  up  and  down 
For  pastime  or  grave  traffic  or  mere  chance; 
And  all  fair  women  having  rings  of  gold 
On  hands  or  hair;  and  chief est  over  these 
I  name  you,  daughters  of  this  man  the  king, 
Who  dipping  deep  smooth  pitchers  of  pure  brass 
Under  the  bubbled  wells,  till  each  round  lip 
Stooped  with  loose  gurgle  of  waters  incoming, 
Found  me  an  old  sick  woman,  lamed  and  lean, 
Beside  a  growth  of  builded  olive-boughs 
Whence    multiplied    thick    song    of    thick  plumed 

throats — 

Also  wet  tears  filled  up  my  hollow  hands 
By  reason  of  my  crying  into  them — 
And  pitied  me;  for  as  cold  water  ran 
And  washed  the  pitchers  full  from  lip  to  lip, 
So  washed  both  eyes  full  the  strong  salt  of  tears. 
And  ye  put  water  to  my  mouth,  made  sweet 
With  brown  hill-berries;  so  in  time  I  spoke 
And  gathered  my  loose  knees  from  under  me. 
Moreover  in  the  broad  fair  halls  this  month 

222 


AT  ELEUSIS 

Have  I  found  space  and  bountiful  abode 
To  please  me.     I  Demeter  speak  of  this, 
Who  am  the  mother  and  the  mate  of  things; 
For  as  ill  men  by  drugs  or  singing  words 
Shut  the  doors  inward  of  the  narrowed  womb 
Like  a  lock  bolted  with  round  iron  through, 
Thus  I  shut  up  the  body  and  sweet  mouth 
Of  all  soft  pasture  and  the  tender  land, 
So  that  no  seed  can  enter  in  by  it 
Though  one  sow  thickly,  nor  some  grain  get  out 
Past  the  hard  clods  men  cleave  and  bite  with  steel 
To  widen  the  sealed  lips  of  them  for  use. 
None  of  you  is  there  in  the  peopled  street 
But  knows  how  all  the  dry-drawn  furrows  ache 
With  no  green  spot  made  count  of  in  the  black: 
How  the  wind  finds  no  comfortable  grass 
Nor  is  assuaged  with  bud  nor  breath  of  herbs; 
And  in  hot  autumn  when  ye  house  the  stacks, 
All  fields  are  helpless  in  the  sun,  all  trees 
Stand  as  a  man  stripped  out  of  all  but  skin. 
Nevertheless  ye  sick  have  help  to  get 
By  means  and  stablished  ordinance  of  God; 
For  God  is  wiser  than  a  good  man  is. 
But  never  shall  new  grass  be  sweet  in  earth 
Till  I  get  righted  of  my  wound  and  wrong 
By  changing  counsel  of  ill-minded  Zeus. 
For  of  all  other  gods  is  none  save  me 
Clothed  with  like  power  to  build  and  break  the  year. 
I  make  the  lesser  green  begin,  when  spring 
Touches  not  earth  but  with  one  fearful  foot; 
And  as  a  careful  gilder  with  grave  art 
Soberly  colours  and  completes  the  face, 

223 


AT  ELEUSIS 

Mouth,  chin  and  all,  of  some  sweet  work  in  stone, 
I  carve  the  shapes  of  grass  and  tender  corn 
And  colour  the  ripe  edges  and  long  spikes 
With  the  red  increase  and  the  grace  of  gold. 
No  tradesman  in  soft  wools  is  cunninger 
To  kill  the  secret  of  the  fat  white  fleece 
With  stains  of  blue  and  purple  wrought  in  it. 
Three  moons  were  made  and  three  moons  burnt 

away 

While  I  held  journey  hither  out  of  Crete 
Comfortless,  tended  by  grave  Hecate 
Whom  my  wound  stung  with  double  iron  point; 
For  all  my  face  was  like  a  cloth  wrung  out 
With  close  and  weeping  wrinkles,  and  both  lids 
Sodden  with  salt  continuance  of  tears. 
For  Hades  and  the  sidelong  will  of  Zeus 
And  that  lame  wisdom  that  has  writhen  feet, 
Cunning,  begotten  in  the  bed  of  Shame, 
These  three  took  evil  will  at  me,  and  made 
Such  counsel  that  when  time  got  wing  to  fly 
This  Hades  out  of  summer  and  low  fields 
Forced  the  bright  body  of  Persephone: 
Out  of  pure  grass,  where  she  lying  down,  red  flowers 
Made  their  sharp  little  shadows  on  her  sides, 
Pale  heat,  pale  colour  on  pale  maiden  flesh — 
And  chill  water  slid  over  her  reddening  feet, 
Killing  the  throbs  in  their  soft  blood;  and  birds, 
Perched  next  her  elbow  and  pecking  at  her  hair, 
Stretched  their  necks  more  to  see  her  than  even  to 

sing. 

A  sharp  thing  is  it  I  have  need  to  say; 
For  Hades  holding  both  white  wrists  of  hers 

224 


AT  ELEUSIS 

Unloosed  the  girdle  and  with  knot  by  knot 
Bound  her  between  his  wheels  upon  the  seat, 
Bound  her  pure  body,  holiest  yet  and  dear 
To  me  and  God  as  always,  clothed  about 
With  blossoms  loosened  as  her  knees  went  down, 
Let  fall  as  she  let  go  of  this  and  this 
By  tens  and  twenties,  tumbled  to  her  feet, 
White  waifs  or  purple  of  the  pasturage. 
Therefore  with  only  going  up  and  down 
My  feet  were  wasted,  and  the  gracious  air, 
To  me  discomfortable  and  dun,  became 
As  weak  smoke  blowing  in  the  under  world. 
And  rinding  in  the  process  of  ill  days 
What  part  had  Zeus  herein,  and  how  as  mate 
He  coped  with  Hades,  yokefellow  in  sin, 
I  set  my  lips  against  the  meat  of  gods 
And  drank  not  neither  ate  or  slept  in  heaven. 
Nor  in  the  golden  greeting  of  their  mouths 
Did  ear  take  note  of  me,  nor  eye  at  all 
Track  my  feet  going  in  the  ways  of  them. 
Like  a  great  fire  on  some  strait  slip  of  land 
Between  two  washing  inlets  of  wet  sea 
That  burns  the  grass  up  to  each  lip  of  beach 
And  strengthens,  waxing  in  the  growth  of  wind 
So  burnt  my  soul  in  me  at  heaven  and  earth, 
Each  way  a  ruin  and  a  hungry  plague, 
Visible  evil;  nor  could  any  night 
Put  cool  between  mine  eyelids,  nor  the  sun 
With  competence  of  gold  fill  out  my  want. 
Yea  so  my  flame  burnt  up  the  grass  and  stones, 
Shone  to  the  salt-white  edges  of  thin  sea, 
Distempered  all  the  gracious  work,  and  made 
225 


AT  ELEUSTS 

Sick  change,  unseasonable  increase  of  days 
And  scant  avail  of  seasons;  for  by  this 
The  fair  gods  faint  in  hollow  heaven:  there  comes 
No  taste  of  burnings  of  the  twofold  fat 
To  leave  their  palates  smooth,  nor  in  their  lips 
Soft  rings  of  smoke  and  weak  scent  wandering; 
All  cattle  waste  and  rot,  and  their  ill  smell 
Grows  alway  from  the  lank  unsavoury  flesh 
That  no  man  slays  for  offering;  the  sea 
And  waters  moved  beneath  the  heath  and  corn 
Preserve  the  people  of  fin-twinkling  fish, 
And  river-flies  feed  thick  upon  the  smooth; 
But  all  earth  over  is  no  man  or  bird 
(Except  the  sweet  race  of  the  kingfisher) 
That  lacks  not  and  is  wearied  with  much  loss. 
Meantime  the  purple  inward  of  the  house 
Was  softened  with  all  grace  of  scent  and  sound 
In  ear  and  nostril  perfecting  my  praise; 
Faint  grape-flowers  and  cloven  honey-cake 
And  the  just  grain  with  dues  of  the  shed  salt 
Made  me  content:  yet  my  hand  loosened  not 
Its  gripe  upon  your  harvest  all  year  long. 
While  I,  thus  woman -muffled  in  wan  flesh 
And  waste  externals  of  a  perished  face, 
Preserved  the  levels  of  my  wrath  and  love 
Patiently  ruled;  and  with  soft  offices 
Cooled  the  sharp  noons  and  busied  the  warm  nights 
In  care  of  this  my  choice,  this  child  my  choice, 
Triptolemus,  the  king's  selected  son: 
That  this  fair  yearlong  body,  which  hath  grown 
Strong  with  strange  milk  upon  the  mortal  lip 
And  nerved  with  half  a  god,  might  so  increase 

226 


AT  ELEUSIS 

Outside  the  bulk  and  the  bare  scope  of  man: 
And  waxen  over  large  to  hold  within 
Base  breath  of  yours  and  this  impoverished  air, 
I  might  exalt  him  past  the  flame  of  stars, 
The  limit  and  walled  reach  of  the  great  world. 
Therefore  my  breast  made  common  to  his  mouth 
Immortal  savours,  and  the  taste  whereat 
Twice  their  hard  life  strains  out  the  coloured  veins 
And  twice  its  brain  confirms  the  narrow  shell. 
Also  at  night,  unwinding  cloth  from  cloth 
As  who  unhusks  an  almond  to  the  white 
And  pastures  curiously  the  purer  taste, 
I  bared  the  gracious  limbs  and  the  soft  feet, 
Uns waddled  the  weak  hands,  and  in  mid  ash 
Laid  the  sweet  flesh  of  either  feeble  side, 
More  tender  for  impressure  of  some  touch 
Than  wax  to  any  pen;  and  lit  around 
Fire,  and  made  crawl  the  white  worm-shapen  flame, 
And  leap  in  little  angers  spark  by  spark 
At  head  at  once  and  feet;  and  the  faint  hair 
Hissed  with  rare  sprinkles  in  the  closer  curl, 
And  like  scaled  oarage  of  a  keen  thin  fish 
In  sea- water,  so  in  pure  fire  his  feet 
Struck  out,  and  the  flame  bit  not  in  his  flesh, 
But  like  a  kiss  it  curled  his  lip,  and  heat 
Fluttered  his  eyelids;  so  each  night  I  blew 
The  hot  ash  red  to  purge  him  to  full  god. 
Ill  is  it  when  fear  hungers  in  the  soul 
For  painful  food,  and  chokes  thereon,  being  fed; 
And  ill  slant  eyes  interpret  the  straight  sun, 
But  in  their  scope  its  white  is  wried  to  black: 
By  the  queen  Metaneira  mean  I  this; 

227 


AT  ELEUSIS 

For  with  sick  wrath  upon  her  lips,  and  heart 
Narrowing  with  fear  the  spleenful  passages, 
She  thought  to  thread  this  web's  fine  ravel  out, 
Nor  leave  her  shuttle  split  in  combing  it; 
Therefore  she  stole  on  us,  and  with  hard  sight 
Peered,   and  stooped   close;  then  with  pale   open 

mouth 

As  the  fire  smote  her  in  the  eyes  between 
Cried,  and  the  child's  laugh,  sharply  shortening 
As  fire  doth  under  rain,  fell  off;  the  flame 
Writhed  once  all  through  and  died,  and  in  thick  dark 
Tears  fell  from  mine  on  the  child's  weeping  eyes, 
Eyes  dispossessed  of  strong  inheritance 
And  mortal  fallen  anew.     Who  not  the  less 
From  bud  of  beard  to  pale-grey  flower  of  hair 
Shall  wax  vinewise  to  a  lordly  vine,  whose  grapes 
Bleed  the  red  heavy  blood  of  swoln  soft  wine, 
Subtle  with  sharp  leaves'  intricacy,  until 
Full  of  white  years  and  blossom  of  hoary  days 
I  take  him  perfected;  for  whose  one  sake 
I  am  thus  gracious  to  the  least  who  stands 
Filleted  with  white  wool  and  girt  upon 
As  he  whose  prayer  endures  upon  the  lip 
And  falls  not  waste:  wherefore  let  sacrifice 
Burn  and  run  red  in  all  the  wider  ways; 
Seeing  I  have  sworn  by  the  pale  temples'  band 
And  poppied  hair  of  gold  Persephone 
Sad-tressed  and  pleached  low  down  about  her  brows, 
And  by  the  sorrow  in  her  lips,  and  death 
Her  dumb  and  mournful-mouthed  minister, 
My  word  for  you  is  eased  of  its  harsh  weight 
And  doubled  with  soft  promise;  and  your  king 

228 


AT  ELEUSIS 

Triptolemus,  this  Celeus  dead  and  swathed 
Purple  and  pale  for  golden  burial, 
Shall  be  your  helper  in  my  services, 
Dividing  earth  and  reaping  fruits  thereof 
In  fields  where  wait,  well-girt,  well- wreath  en,  all 
The  heavy-handed  seasons  all  year  through; 
Saving  the  choice  of  warm  spear-headed  grain 
And  stooping  sharp  to  the  slant-sided  share 
All  beasts  that  furrow  the  remeasured  land 
With  their  bowed  necks  of  burden  equable. 


AUGUST 

THERE  were  four  apples  on  the  bough, 
Half  gold  half  red,  that  one  might  know 
The  blood  was  ripe  inside  the  core; 
The  colour  of  the  leaves  was  more 
Like  stems  of  yellow  corn  that  grow 
Through  all  the  gold  June  meadow's  floor. 

The  warm  smell  of  the  fruit  was  good 
To  feed  on,  and  the  split  green  wood, 
With  all  its  bearded  lips  and  stains 
Of  mosses  in  the  cloven  veins, 
Most  pleasant,  if  one  lay  or  stood 
In  sunshine  or  in  happy  rains. 

There  were  four  apples  on  the  tree, 
Red  stained  through  gold,  that  all  might  see 
The  sun  went  warm  from  core  to  rind; 
The  green  leaves  made  the  summer  blind 
In  that  soft  place  they  kept  for  me 
With  golden  apples  shut  behind. 

The  leaves  caught  gold  across  the  sun, 
And  where  the  bluest  air  begun 
230 


AUGUST 

Thirsted  for  song  to  help  the  heat; 
As  I  to  feel  my  lady's  feet 
Draw  close  before  the  day  were  done; 
Both  lips  grew  dry  with  dreams  of  it. 

In  the  mute  August  afternoon 

They  trembled  to  some  undertune 

Of  music  in  the  silver  air; 

Great  pleasure  was  it  to  be  there 

Till  green  turned  duskier  and  the  moon 

Coloured  the  corn-sheaves  like  gold  hair. 

That  August  time  it  was  delight 

To  watch  the  red  moons  wane  to  white 

'Twixt  grey  seamed  stems  of  apple-trees; 

A  sense  of  heavy  harmonies 

Grew  on  the  growth  of  patient  night, 

More  sweet  than  shapen  music  is. 

But  some  three  hours  before  the  moon 
The  air,  still  eager  from  the  noon, 
Flagged  after  heat,  not  wholly  dead; 
Against  the  stem  I  leant  my  head; 
The  colour  soothed  me  like  a  tune, 
Green  leaves  all  round  the  gold  and  red. 

I  lay  there  till  the  warm  smell  grew 
More  sharp,  when  flecks  of  yellow  dew 
Between  the  round  ripe  leaves  had  blurred 
The  rind  with  stain  and  wet;  I  heard 
A  wind  that  blew  and  breathed  and  blew, 
Too  weak  to  alter  its  one  word. 
231 


AUGUST 

The  wet  leaves  next  the  gentle  fruit 
Felt  smoother,  and  the  brown  tree-root 
Felt  the  mould  warmer:  I  too  felt 
(As  water  feels  the  slow  gold  melt 
Right  through  it  when  the  day  burns  mute) 
The  peace  of  time  wherein  love  dwelt. 

There  were  four  apples  on  the  tree, 
Gold  stained  on  red  that  all  might  see 
The  sweet  blood  filled  them  to  the  core: 
The  colour  of  her  hair  is  more 
Like  stems  of  fair  faint  gold,  that  be 
Mown  from  the  harvest's  middle  floor. 


THREE  damsels  in  the  queen's  chamber, 

The  queen's  mouth  was  most  fair; 
She  spake  a  word  of  God's  mother 
As  the  combs  went  in  her  hair. 
Mary  that  is  of  might, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  sight. 

They  held  the  gold  combs  out  from  her, 

A  span's  length  off  her  head; 
She  sang  this  song  of  God's  mother 
And  of  her  bearing-bed. 

Mary  most  full  of  grace, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  face. 

When  she  sat  at  Joseph's  hand, 
She  looked  against  her  side; 
And  either  way  from  the  short  silk  band 
Her  girdle  was  all  wried. 

Mary  that  all  good  may, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  way. 

Suggested  by  a  drawing  of  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti's. 
233 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

Mary  had  three  women  for  her  bed, 
The  twain  were  maidens  clean; 
The  first  of  them  had  white  and  red, 
The  third  had  riven  green. 
Mary  that  is  so  sweet, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  feet. 

She  had  three  women  for  her  hair, 

Two  were  gloved  soft  and  shod; 
The  third  had  feet  and  fingers  bare, 
She  was  the  likest  God. 

Mary  that  wieldeth  land, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  hand. 

She  had  three  women  for  her  ease, 
The  twain  were  good  women: 
The  first  two  were  the  two  Maries, 
The  third  was  Magdalen. 
Mary  that  perfect  is, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  kiss. 

Joseph  had  three  workmen  in  his  stall. 

To  serve  him  well  upon; 
The  first  of  them  were  Peter  and  Paul, 
The  third  of  them  was  John. 
Mary,  God's  handmaiden, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  ken. 

"If  your  child  be  none  other  man's, 

But  if  it  be  very  mine, 
The  bedstead  shall  be  gold  two  spans, 

The  bedfoot  silver  fine." 
234 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

Mary  that  made  God  mirth. 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  birth. 

"If  the  child  be  some  other  man's, 

And  if  it  be  none  of  mine, 
The  manger  shall  be  straw  two  spans, 
Betwixen  kine  and  kine." 

Mary  that  made  sin  cease, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  peace. 

Christ  was  born  upon  this  wise, 

It  fell  on  such  a  night, 
Neither  with  sounds  of  psalteries, 
Nor  with  fire  for  light. 

Mary  that  is  God's  spouse, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  house. 

The  star  came  out  upon  the  east 

With  a  great  sound  and  sweet: 
Kings  gave  gold  to  make  him  feast 
And  myrrh  for  him  to  eat. 

Mary,  of  thy  sweet  mood, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  good. 

He  had  two  handmaids  at  his  head, 

One  handmaid  at  his  feet; 
The  twain  of  them  were  fair  and  red, 
The  third  one  was  right  sweet. 
Mary  that  is  most  wise, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  eyes.     Amen. 

18 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

A    MIRACLE-PLAY 
KING    DAVID 

KNIGHTS  mine,  all  that  be  in  hall, 
I  have  a  counsel  to  you  all, 
Because  of  this  thing  God  lets  fall 

Among  us  for  a  sign. 
For  some  days  hence  as  I  did  eat 
From  kingly  dishes  my  good  meat, 
There  flew  a  bird  between  my  feet 

As  red  as  any  wine. 
This  bird  had  a  long  bill  of  red 
And  a  gold  ring  above  his  head; 
Long  time  he  sat  and  nothing  said, 
Put  softly  down  his  neck  and  fed 

From  the  gilt  patens  fine: 
And  as  I  marvelled,  at  the  last 
He  shut  his  two  keen  eyen  fast 
And  suddenly  woxe  big  and  brast 

Ere  one  should  tell  to  nine. 

PRIMUS  MILES 

Sir,  note  this  that  I  will  say; 
That  Lord  who  maketh  corn  with  hay 
And  morrows  each  of  yesterday, 
He  hath  you  in  his  hand. 
236 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

SECUNDUS   MILES   (Paganus  quidam) 

By  Satan  I  hold  no  such  thing; 
For  if  wine  swell  within  a  king 
Whose  ears  for  drink  are  hot  and  ring, 
The  same  shall  dream  of  wine-bibbing 
Whilst  he  can  lie  or  stand. 


QUEEN    BERSABE 

Peace  now,  lords,  for  Godis  head, 
Ye  chirk  as  starlings  that  be  fed 
And  gape  as  fishes  newly  dead; 
The  devil  put  your  bones  to  bed, 
Lo,  this  is  all  to  say. 


SECUNDUS    MILES 

By  Mahound,  lords,  I  have  good  will 
This  devil's  bird  to  wring  and  spill; 
For  now  meseems  our  game  goes  ill, 
Ye  have  scant  hearts  to  play. 


TERTIUS    MILES 

Lo,  sirs,  this  word  is  there  said, 
That  Urias  the  knight  is  dead 
Through  some  ill  craft;  by  Poulis  head, 
I  doubt  his  blood  hath  made  so  red 
This  bird  that  flew  from  the  queen's  bed 
Whereof  ye  have  such  fear. 
237 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

KING    DAVID 

Yea,  my  good  knave,  and  is  it  said 
That  I  can  raise  men  from  the  dead  ? 
By  God  I  think  to  have  his  head 
Who  saith  words  of  my  lady's  bed 

For  any  thief  to  hear. 
Et  percutiat  eum  in  capite. 

QUEEN    BERSABE 

I  wis  men  shall  spit  at  me, 
And  say,  it  were  but  right  for  thee 
That  one  should  hang  thee  on  a  tree; 
Ho!  it  were  a  fair  thing  to  see 
The  big  stones  bruise  her  false  body: 
Fie!  who  shall  see  her  dead? 

KING    DAVID 

I  rede  you  have  no  fear  of  this, 
For,  as  ye  wot,  the  first  good  kiss 
I  had  must  be  the  last  of  his; 
Now  are  ye  queen  of  mine,  I  wis, 
And  lady  of  a  house  that  is 

Full  rich  of  meat  and  bread. 

PRIMUS  MILES 

I  bid  you  make  good  cheer  to  be 
So  fair  a  queen  as  all  men  see. 
And  hold  us  for  your  lieges  free; 
By  Peter's  soul  that  hath  the  key, 
Ye  have  good  hap  of  it. 
238 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 


SECUNDUS    MILES 

I  would  that  he  were  hanged  and  dead 
Who  hath  no  joy  to  see  your  head 
With  gold  about  it,  barred  on  red; 
I  hold  him  as  a  sow  of  lead 
That  is  so  scant  of  wit. 


Tune  dicat  NATHAN  propheta 

O  king,  I  have  a  word  to  thee; 
The  child  that  is  in  Bersabe 
Shall  wither  without  light  to  see; 
This  word  is  come  of  God  by  me 

For  sin  that  ye  have  done. 
Because  herein  ye  did  not  right, 
To  take  the  fair  one  lamb  to  smite 
That  was  of  Urias  the  knight; 

Ye  wist  he  had  but  one. 
Full  many  sheep  I  wot  ye  had, 
And  many  women,  when  ye  bade 
To  do  your  will  and  keep  you  glad, 
And  a  good  crown  about  your  head 

With  gold  to  show  thereon. 
This  Urias  had  one  poor  house 
With  low-barred  latoun  shot-windows 
And  scant  of  corn  to  fill  a  mouse; 
And  rusty  basnets  for  his  brows, 

To  wear  them  to  the  bone. 
Yea  the  roofs  also,  as  men  sain, 
Were  thin  to  hold  against  the  rain; 
Therefore  what  rushes  were  there  lain 
239 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

Grew  wet  withouten  foot  of  men; 
The  stancheons  were  all  gone  in  twain 

As  sick  man's  flesh  is  gone. 
Nathless  he  had  great  joy  to  see 
The  long  hair  of  this  Bersabe 
Fall  round  her  lap  and  round  her  knee 
Even  to  her  small  soft  feet,  that  be 
Shod  now  with  crimson  royally 

And  covered  with  clean  gold. 
Likewise  great  joy  he  had  to  kiss 
Her  throat,  where  now  the  scarlet  is 
Against  her  little  chin,  I  wis, 

That  then  was  but  cold. 
No  scarlet  then  her  kirtle  had 
And  little  gold  about  it  sprad; 
But  her  red  mouth  was  always  glad 
To  kiss,  albeit  the  eyes  were  sad 

With  love  they  had  to  hold. 


SECUNDUS    MILES 

How!  old  thief,  thy  wits  are  lame; 

To  clip  such  it  is  no  shame; 

I  rede  you  in  the  devil's  name, 

Ye  come  not  here  to  make  men  game; 

By  Termagaunt  that  maketh  grame, 

I  shall  to-bete  thine  head. 
Hie  Diabolus  capiat  eum. 
This  knave  hath  sharp  fingers,  perfay; 
Mahound  you  thank  and  keep  alway, 
And  give  you  good  knees  to  pray; 
What  man  hath  no  lust  to  play, 
240 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

The  devil  wring  his  ears,  I  say; 
There  is  no  more  but  wellaway, 
For  now  am  I  dead. 


KING    DAVID 

Certes  his  mouth  is  wried  and  black, 
Full  little  pence  be  in  his  sack; 
This  devil  hath  him  by  the  back, 
It  is  no  boot  to  lie. 


NATHAN 

Sitteth  now  still  and  learn  of  me; 
A  little  while  and  ye  shall  see 
The  face  of  God's  strength  presently. 
All  queens  made  as  this  Bersabe, 
All  that  were  fair  and  foul  ye  be, 
Come  hither;  it  am  I. 

Et  hlc  omnes  cantabunt. 

HERODIAS 

I  am  the  queen  Herodias. 

This  headband  of  my  temples  was 

King  Herod's  gold  band  woven  me. 
This  broken  dry  staff  in  my  hand 
Was  the  queen's  staff  of  a  great  land 

Betwixen  Perse  and  Samarie. 
For  that  one  dancing  of  my  feet, 
The  fire  is  come  in  my  green  wheat, 

From  one  sea  to  the  other  sea. 
241 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

AHOLIBAH 

I  am  the  queen  Aholibah. 

My  lips  kissed  dumb  the  word  of  Ah 

Sighed  on  strange  lips  grown  sick  thereby. 
God  wrought  to  me  my  royal  bed; 
The  inner  work  thereof  was  red, 

The  outer  work  was  ivory. 
My  mouth's  heat  was  the  heat  of  flame 
For  lust  towards  the  kings  that  came 

With  horsemen  riding  royally. 


CLEOPATRA 

I  am  the  queen  of  Ethiope. 
Love  bade  my  kissing  eyelids  ope 

That  men  beholding  might  praise  love. 
My  hair  was  wonderful  and  curled; 
My  lips  held  fast  the  mouth  o'  the  world 

To  spoil  the  strength  and  speech  thereof. 
The  latter  triumph  in  my  breath 
Bowed  down  the  beaten  brows  of  death, 

Ashamed  they  had  not  wrath  enough. 


ABIHAIL 

I  am  the  queen  of  Tyrians. 

My  hair  was  glorious  for  twelve  spans, 

That  dried  to  loose  dust  afterward. 
My  stature  was  a  strong  man's  length: 
My  neck  was  like  a  place  of  strength 
Built  with  white  walls,  even  and  hard. 
242 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

Like  the  first  noise  of  rain  leaves  catch 
One  from  another,  snatch  by  snatch, 

Is  my  praise,  hissed  against  and  marred. 


AZUBAH 

I  am  the  queen  of  Amorites. 

My  face  was  like  a  place  of  lights 

With  multitudes  at  festival. 
The  glory  of  my  gracious  brows 
Was  like  God's  house  made  glorious 

With  colours  upon  either  wall. 
Between  my  brows  and  hair  there  was 
A  white  space  like  a  space  of  glass 

With  golden  candles  over  all. 

AHOLAH 

I  am  the  queen  of  Amalek. 

There  was  no  tender  touch  or  fleck 

To  spoil  my  body  or  bared  feet. 
My  words  were  soft  like  dulcimers, 
And  the  first  sweet  of  grape-flowers 

Made  each  side  of  my  bosom  sweet. 
My  raiment  was  as  tender  fruit 
Whose  rind  smells  sweet  of  spice-tree  root, 

Bruised  balm-blossom  and  budded  wheat. 

AHINOAM 

I  am  the  queen  Ahinoam. 

Like  the  throat  of  a  soft  slain  lamb 

Was  my  throat,  softer  veined  than  his: 
243 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

My  lips  were  as  two  grapes  the  sun 
Lays  his  whole  weight  of  heat  upon 

Like  a  mouth  heavy  with  a  kiss: 
My  hair's  pure  purple  a  wrought  fleece, 
My  temples  therein  as  a  piece 

Of  a  pomegranate's  cleaving  is. 

ATARAH 

I  am  the  queen  Sidonian. 

My  face  made  faint  the  face  of  man, 

And  strength  was  bound  between  my  brows 
Spikenard  was  hidden  in  my  ships, 
Honey  and  wheat  and  myrrh  in  strips, 

White  wools  that  shine  as  colour  does, 
Soft  linen  dyed  upon  the  fold, 
Split  spice  and  cores  of  scented  gold, 

Cedar  and  broken  calamus. 

SEMIRAMIS 

I  am  the  queen  Semiramis. 
The  whole  world  and  the  sea  that  is 

In  fashion  like  a  chrysopras, 
The  noise  of  all  men  labouring, 
The  priest's  mouth  tired  through  thanksgiving, 

The  sound  of  love  in  the  blood's  pause, 
The  strength  of  love  in  the  blood's  beat, 
All  these  were  cast  beneath  my  feet 

And  all  found  lesser  than  I  was. 

HESIONE 

I  am  the  queen  Hesione. 
The  seasons  that  increased  in  me 
Made  my  face  fairer  than  all  men's. 
244 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

I  had  the  summer  in  my  hair; 
And  all  the  pale  gold  autumn  air 

Was  as  the  habit  of  my  sense. 
My  body  was  as  fire  that  shone; 
God's  beauty  that  makes  all  things  one 

Was  one  among  my  handmaidens. 


CHRYSOTHEMIS 

I  am  the  queen  of  Samothrace. 
God,  making  roses,  made  my  face 

As  a  rose  filled  up  full  with  red. 
My  prows  made  sharp  the  straitened  seas 
From  Pontus  to  that  Chersonese 

Whereon  the  ebbed  Asian  stream  is  shed. 
My  hair  was  as  sweet  scent  that  drips; 
Love's  breath  begun  about  my  lips 

Kindled  the  lips  of  people  dead. 


THOMYRIS 

I  am  the  queen  of  Scythians. 

My  strength  was  like  no  strength  of  man's, 

My  face  like  day,  my  breast  like  spring. 
My  fame  was  felt  in  the  extreme  land 
That  hath  sunshine  on  the  one  hand 

And  on  the  other  star-shining. 
Yea,  and  the  wind  there  fails  of  breath; 
Yea,  and  there  life  is  waste  like  death; 

Yea,  and  there  death  is  a  glad  thing. 
245 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

HARHAS 

I  am  the  queen  of  Anakim. 

In  the  spent  years  whose  speech  is  dim, 

Whose  raiment  is  the  dust  and  death, 
My  stately  body  without  stain 
Shone  as  the  shining  race  of  rain 

Whose  hair  a  great  wind  scattereth. 
Now  hath  God  turned  my  lips  to  sighs, 
Plucked  off  mine  eyelids  from  mine  eyes, 

And  sealed  with  seals  my  way  of  breath. 


MYRRHA 

I  am  the  queen  Arabian. 

The  tears  wherewith  mine  eyelids  ran 

Smelt  like  my  perfumed  eyelids'  smell. 
A  harsh  thirst  made  my  soft  mouth  hard, 
That  ached  with  kisses  afterward; 

My  brain  rang  like  a  beaten  bell. 
As  tears  on  eyes,  as  fire  on  wood, 
Sin  fed  upon  my  breath  and  blood. 

Sin  made  my  breasts  subside  and  swell. 

PASIPHAE 

I  am  the  queen  Pasiphae. 

Not  all  the  pure  clean -coloured  sea 

Could  cleanse  or  cool  my  yearning  veins; 
Nor  any  root  nor  herb  that  grew, 
Flag-leaves  that  let  green  water  through, 

Nor  washing  of  the  dews  and  rains. 
246 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

From  shame's  pressed  core  I  wrung  the  sweet 
Fruit's  savour  that  was  death  to  eat, 
Whereof  no  seed  but  death  remains. 

SAPPHO 

I  am  the  queen  of  Lesbians. 
My  love,  that  had  no  part  in  man's, 

Was  sweeter  than  all  shape  of  sweet. 
The  intolerable  infinite  desire 
Made  my  face  pale  like  faded  fire 

When  the  ashen  pyre  falls  through  with  heat. 
My  blood  was  hot  wan  wine  of  love, 
And  my  songs  sound  the  sound  thereof, 

The  sound  of  the  delight  of  it. 

MESSALINA 

I  am  the  queen  of  Italy. 

These  were  the  signs  God  set  on  me; 

A  barren  beauty  subtle  and  sleek, 
Curled  carven  hair,  and  cheeks  worn  wan 
With  fierce  false  lips  of  many  a  man, 

Large  temples  where  the  blood  ran  weak, 
A  mouth  athirst  and  amorous 
And  hungering  as  the  grave's  mouth  does 

That,  being  an-hungred,  cannot  speak. 

AMESTRIS 

I  am  the  queen  of  Persians. 
My  breasts  were  lordlier  than  bright  swans, 

My  body  as  amber  fair  and  thin. 
Strange  flesh  was  given  my  lips  for  bread, 
With  poisonous  hours  my  days  were  fed, 
And  my  feet  shod  with  adder-skin. 
247 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

In  Shushan  toward  Ecbatane 
I  wrought  my  joys  with  tears  and  pain, 
My  loves  with  blood  and  bitter  sin. 

EPHRATH 

I  am  the  queen  of  Rephaim. 

God,  that  some  while  refraineth  him, 

Made  in  the  end  a  spoil  of  me. 
My  rumour  was  upon  the  world 
As  strong  sound  of  swoln  water  hurled 

Through  porches  of  the  straining  sea. 
My  hair  was  like  the  flag-flower, 
And  my  breasts  carven  goodlier 

Than  beryl  with  chalcedony. 

PASITHEA 

I  am  the  queen  of  Cypriotes. 

Mine  oarsmen,  labouring  with  brown  throats, 

Sang  of  me  many  a  tender  thing. 
My  maidens,  girdled  loose  and  braced 
With  gold  from  bosom  to  white  waist, 

Praised  me  between  their  wool-combing. 
All  that  praise  Venus  all  night  long 
With  lips  like  speech  and  lids  like  song 

Praised  me  till  song  lost  heart  to  sing. 

ALACIEL 

I  am  the  queen  Alaciel. 
My  mouth  was  like  that  moist  gold  cell 
Whereout  the  thickest  honey  drips. 
248 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

Mine  eyes  were  as  a  grey-green  sea; 
The  amorous  blood  that  smote  on  me 

Smote  to  my  feet  and  finger-tips. 
My  throat  was  whiter  than  the  dove, 
Mine  eyelids  as  the  seals  of  love, 

And  as  the  doors  of  love  my  lips. 

ERIGONE 

I  am  the  queen  Erigone. 

The  wild  wine  shed  as  blood  on  me 

Made  my  face  brighter  than  a  bride's. 
My  large  lips  had  the  old  thirst  of  earth, 
Mine  arms  the  might  of  the  old  sea's  girth 

Bound  round  the  whole  world's  iron  sides. 
Within  mine  eyes  and  in  mine  ears 
Were  music  and  the  wine  of  tears, 

And  light,  and  thunder  of  the  tides. 

Et  hlc  exeant,  et  dicat  Bersabe  regina; 

Alas,  God,  for  thy  great  pity 

And  for  the  might  that  is  in  thee, 

Behold,  I  woful  Bersabe 

Cry  out  with  stoopings  of  my  knee 

And  thy  wrath  laid  and  bound  on  me 

Till  I  may  see  thy  love. 
Behold,  Lord,  this  child  is  grown 
Within  me  between  bone  and  bone 
To  make  me  mother  of  a  son, 
Made  of  my  body  with  strong  moan; 
There  shall  not  be  another  one 

That  shall  be  made  hereof. 
249 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 


KING    DAVID 

Lord  God,  alas,  what  shall  I  sain? 
Lo,  thou  art  as  an  hundred  men 
Both  to  break  and  build  again: 
The  wild  ways  thou  makest  plain, 
Thine  hands  hold  the  hail  and  rain, 
And  thy  fingers  both  grape  and  grain; 
Of  their  largess  we  be  all  well  fain, 

And  of  their  great  pity: 
The  sun  thou  madest  of  good  gold, 
Of  clean  silver  the  moon  cold, 
All  the  great  stars  thou  hast  told 
As  thy  cattle  in  thy  fold 
Every  one  by  his  name  of  old; 
Wind  and  water  thou  hast  in  hold, 

Both  the  land  and  the  long  sea; 
Both  the  green  sea  and  the  land, 
Lord  God,  thou  hast  in  hand, 
Both  white  water  and  grey  sand; 
Upon  thy  right  or  thy  left  hand 
There  is  no  man  that  may  stand; 

Lord,  thou  rue  on  me. 

0  wise  Lord,  if  thou  be  keen 
To  note  things  amiss  that  been, 

1  am  not  worth  a  shell  of  bean 

More  than  an  old  mare  meagre  and  lean; 
For  all  my  wrong-doing  with  my  queen, 
It  grew  not  of  our  heartes  clean, 

But  it  began  of  her  body. 
For  it  fell  in  the  hot  May 
I  stood  within  a  paven  way 
250 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

Built  of  fair  bright  stone,  perfay, 
That  is  as  fire  of  night  and  day 

And  lighteth  all  my  house. 
Therein  be  neither  stones  nor  sticks, 
Neither  red  nor  white  bricks, 
But  for  cubits  five  or  six 
There  is  most  goodly  sardonyx 

And  amber  laid  in  rows. 
It  goes  round  about  my  roofs, 
(If  ye  list  ye  shall  have  proofs) 
There  is  good  space  for  horse  and  hoofs, 

Plain  and  nothing  perilous. 
For  the  fair  green  weather's  heat, 
And  for  the  smell  of  leaves  sweet, 
It  is  no  marvel,  well  ye  weet, 

A  man  to  waxen  amorous. 
This  I  say  now  by  my  case 
That  spied  forth  of  that  royal  place; 
There  I  saw  in  no  great  space 
Mine  own  sweet,  both  body  and  face, 
Under  the  fresh  boughs. 
In  a  water  that  was  there 
She  wesshe  her  goodly  body  bare 
And  dried  it  with  her  owen  hair: 
Both  her  arms  and  her  knees  fair, 

Both  bosom  and  brows; 
Both  shoulders  and  eke  thighs 
Tho  she  wesshe  upon  this  wise; 
Ever  she  sighed  with  little  sighs, 

And  ever  she  gave  God  thank, 
Yea,  God  wot  I  can  well  see  yet 
Both  her  breast  and  her  sides  all  wet 
19  251 


THE  MASQUE  OF  QUEEN  BERSABE 

And  her  long  hair  withouten  let 
Spread  sideways  like  a  drawing  net; 
Full  dear  bought  and  full  far  fet 
Was  that  sweet  thing  there  y-set; 
It  were  a  hard  thing  to  forget 
How  both  lips  and  even  met, 

Breast  and  breath  sank. 
So  goodly  a  sight  as  there  she  was, 
Lying  looking  on  her  glass 
By  wan  water  in  green  grass, 
Yet  saw  never  man. 
So  soft  and  great  she  was  and  bright 
With  all  her  body  waxen  white, 
I  woxe  nigh  blind  to  see  the  light 
Shed  out  of  it  to  left  and  right; 
This  bitter  sin  from  that  sweet  sight 

Between  us  twain  began. 

NATHAN 

Now,  sir,  be  merry  anon, 
For  ye  shall  have  a  full  wise  son, 
Goodly  and  great  of  flesh  and  bone; 
There  shall  no  king  be  such  an  one, 

I  swear  by  Godis  rood. 
Therefore,  lord,  be  merry  here, 
And  go  to  meat  withouten  fear, 
And  hear  a  mass  with  goodly  cheer; 
For  to  all  folk  ye  shall  be  dear, 

And  all  folk  of  your  blood. 

Et  tune  dicant  Laitdamus. 


ST.   DOROTHY 

IT  hath  been  seen  and  yet  it  shall  be  seen 

That  out  of  tender  mouths  God's  praise  hath  been 

Made  perfect,  and  with  wood  and  simple  string 

He  hath  played  music  sweet  as  shawm-playing 

To  please  himself  with  softness  of  all  sound; 

And  no  small  thing  but  hath  been  sometime  found 

Full  sweet  of  use,  and  no  such  humbleness 

But  God  hath  bruised  withal  the  sentences 

And  evidence  of  wise  men  witnessing; 

No  leaf  that  is  so  soft  a  hidden  thing 

It  never  shall  get  sight  of  the  great  sun; 

The  strength  of  ten  has  been  the  strength  of  one, 

And  lowliness  has  waxed  imperious. 

There  was  in  Rome  a  man  Theophilus 
Of  right  great  blood  and  gracious  ways,  that  had 
All  noble  fashions  to  make  people  glad 
And  a  soft  life  of  pleasurable  days; 
He  was  a  goodly  man  for  one  to  praise, 
Flawless  and  whole  upward  from  foot  to  head; 
His  arms  were  a  red  hawk  that  alway  fed 
On  a  small  bird  with  feathers  gnawed  upon, 
Beaten  and  plucked  about  the  bosom-bone 
Whereby  a  small  round  fleck  like  fire  there  was: 
They  called  it  in  their  tongue  lampadias; 

253 


ST.  DOROTHY 

This  was  the  banner  of  the  lordly  man. 

In  many  straits  of  sea  and  reaches  wan 

Full  of  quick  wind,  and  many  a  shaken  firth, 

It  had  seen  fighting  days  of  either  earth, 

Westward  or  east  of  waters  Gaditane 

(This  was  the  place  of  sea-rocks  under  Spain 

Called  after  the  great  praise  of  Hercules) 

And  north  beyond  the  washing  Pontic  seas, 

Far  windy  Russian  places  fabulous, 

And  salt  fierce  tides  of  storm-swoln  Bosphorus. 

Now  as  this  lord  came  straying  in  Rome  town 
He  saw  a  little  lattice  open  down 
And  after  it  a  press  of  maidens'  heads 
That  sat  upon  their  cold  small  quiet  beds 
Talking,  and  played  upon  short-stringed  lutes; 
And  other  some  ground  perfume  out  of  roots 
Gathered  by  marvellous  moons  in  Asia; 
Saffron  and  aloes  and  wild  cassia, 
Coloured  all  through  and  smelling  of  the  sun; 
And  over  all  these  was  a  certain  one 
Clothed  softly,  with  sweet  herbs  about  her  hair 
And  bosom  flowerful;  her  face  more  fair 
Than  sudden-singing  April  in  soft  lands: 
Eyed  like  a  gracious  bird,  and  in  both  hands 
She  held  a  psalter  painted  green  and  red. 

This  Theophile  laughed  at  the  heart,  and  said, 
Now  God  so  help  me  hither  and  St.  Paul, 
As  by  the  new  time  of  their  festival 
I  have  good  will  to  take  this  maid  to  wife. 
And  herewith  fell  to  fancies  of  her  life 
And  soft  half-thoughts  that  ended  suddenly. 
This  is  man's  guise  to  please  himself,  when  he 
254 


ST.  DOROTHY 

Shall  not  see  one  thing  of  his  pleasant  things. 
Nor  with  outwatch  of  many  travailings 
Come  to  be  eased  of  the  least  pain  he  hath 
For  all  his  love  and  all  his  foolish  wrath 
And  all  the  heavy  manner  of  his  mind. 
Thus  is  he  like  a  fisher  fallen  blind 
That  casts  his  nets  across  the  boat  awry 
To  strike  the  sea,  but  lo,  he  striketh  dry 
And  plucks  them  back  all  broken  for  his  pain 
And  bites  his  beard  and  casts  across  again 
And  reaching  wrong  slips  over  in  the  sea. 
So  hath  this  man  a  strangled  neck  for  fee, 
For  all  his  cost  he  chuckles  in  his  throat. 

This  Theophile  that  little  hereof  wote 
Laid  wait  to  hear  of  her  what  she  might  be: 
Men  told  him  she  had  name  of  Dorothy, 
And  was  a  lady  of  a  worthy  house. 
Thereat  this  knight  grew  inly  glorious 
That  he  should  have  a  love  so  fair  of  place. 
She  was  a  maiden  of  most  quiet  face, 
Tender  of  speech,  and  had  no  hardihood 
But  was  nigh  feeble  of  her  fearful  blood; 
Her  mercy  in  her  was  so  marvellous 
From  her  least  years,  that  seeing  her  school-fel- 
lows 

That  read  beside  her  stricken  with  a  rod, 
She  would  cry  sore  and  say  some  word  to  God 
That  he  would  ease  her  fellow  of  his  pain. 
There  is  no  touch  of  sun  or  fallen  rain 
That  ever  fell  on  a  more  gracious  thing. 

In  middle  Rome  there  was  in  stone-working 
The  church  of  Venus  painted  royally. 

255 


ST.  DOROTHY 

The  chapels  of  it  were  some  two  or  three, 

In  each  of  them  her  tabernacle  was 

And  a  wide  window  of  six  feet  in  glass 

Coloured  with  all  her  works  in  red  and  gold. 

The  altars  had  bright  cloths  and  cups  to  hold 

The  wine  of  Venus  for  the  services, 

Made  out  of  honey  and  crushed  wood-berries 

That  shed  sweet  yellow  through  the  thick  wet  red, 

That  on  high  days  was  borne  upon  the  head 

Of  Venus'  priest  for  any  man  to  drink; 

So  that  in  drinking  he  should  fall  to  think 

On  some  fair  face,  and  in  the  thought  thereof 

Worship,  and  such  should  triumph  in  his  love. 

For  this  soft  wine  that  did  such  grace  and  good 

Was  new  trans-shaped  and  mixed  with  Love's  own 

blood, 

That  in  the  fighting  Trojan  time  was  bled; 
For  which  came  such  a  woe  to  Diomed 
That  he  was  stifled  after  in  hard  sea. 
And  some  said  that  this  wine-shedding  should  be 
Made  of  the  falling  of  Adonis'  blood, 
That  curled  upon  the  thorns  and  broken  wood 
And  round  the  gold  silk  shoes  on  Venus'  feet; 
The  taste  thereof  was  as  hot  honey  sweet 
And  in  the  mouth  ran  soft  and  riotous. 
This  was  the  holiness  of  Venus'  house. 

It  was  their  worship,  that  in  August  days 
Twelve  maidens  should  go  through  those  Roman 

ways 

Naked,  and  having  gold  across  their  brows 
And  their  hair  twisted  in  short  golden  rows, 
To  minister  to  Venus  in  this  wise: 

256 


ST.  DOROTHY 

And  twelve  men  chosen  in  their  companies 
To  match  these  maidens  by  the  altar-stair, 
All  in  one  habit,  crowned  upon  the  hair. 
Among  these  men  was  chosen  Theophile. 

This  knight  went  out  and  prayed  a  little  while, 
Holding  queen  Venus  by  her  hands  and  knees; 
I  will  give  thee  twelve  royal  images 
Cut  in  glad  gold,  with  marvels  of  wrought  stone 
For  thy  sweet  priests  to  lean  and  pray  upon, 
Jasper  and  hyacinth  and  chrysopras, 
And  the  strange  Asian  thalamite  that  was 
Hidden  twelve  ages  under  heavy  sea 
Among  the  little  sleepy  pearls,  to  be 
A  shrine  lit  over  with  soft  candle-flame 
Burning  all  night  red  as  hot  brows  of  shame, 
So  thou  wilt  be  my  lady  without  sin. 
Goddess  that  art  all  gold  outside  and  in, 
Help  me  to  serve  thee  in  thy  holy  way. 
Thou  knowest,  Love,  that  in  my  bearing  day 
There  shone  a  laughter  in  the  singing  stars 
Round  the  gold-ceiled  bride-bed  wherein  Mars 
Touched  thee  and  had  thee  in  your  kissing  wise. 
Now  therefore,  sweet,  kiss  thou  my  maiden's  eyes 
That  they  may  open  graciously  towards  me; 
And  this  new  fashion  of  thy  shrine  shall  be 
As  soft  with  gold  as  thine  own  happy  head. 

The  goddess,  that  was  painted  with  face  red 
Between  two  long  green  tumbled  sides  of  sea, 
Stooped  her  neck  sideways,  and  spake  pleasantly: 
Thou  shalt  have  grace  as  thou  art  thrall  of  mine. 
And  with  this  came  a  savour  of  shed  wine 
And  plucked-out  petals  from  a  rose's  head: 

257 


ST.  DOROTHY 

And  softly  with  slow  laughs  of  lip  she  said, 
Thou  shalt  have  favour  all  thy  days  of  me. 

Then  came  Theophilus  to  Dorothy, 
Saying:  O  sweet,  if  one  should  strive  or  speak 
Against  God's  ways,  he  gets  a  beaten  cheek 
For  all  his  wage  and  shame  above  all  men. 
Therefore  I  have  no  will  to  turn  again 
When  God  saith  "go,"  lest  a  worse  thing  fall  out. 
Then  she,  misdoubting  lest  he  went  about 
To  catch  her  wits,  made  answer  somewhat  thus: 
I  have  no  will,  my  lord  Theophilus, 
To  speak  against  this  worthy  word  of  yours; 
Knowing  how  God's  will  in  all  speech  endures, 
That  save  by  grace  there  may  no  thing  be  said. 
Then  Theophile  waxed  light  from  foot  to  head, 
And  softly  fell  upon  this  answering. 
It  is  well  seen  you  are  a  chosen  thing 
To  do  God  service  in  his  gracious  way. 
I  will  that  you  make  haste  and  holiday 
To  go  next  year  upon  the  Venus  stair, 
Covered  none  else,  but  crowned  upon  your  hair, 
And  do  the  service  that  a  maiden  doth. 
She  said:  but  I  that  am  Christ's  maid  were  loth 
To  do  this  thing  that  hath  such  bitter  name. 
Thereat  his  brows  were  beaten  with  sore  shame 
And  he  came  off  and  said  no  other  word. 
Then  his  eyes  chanced  upon  his  banner-bird, 
And  he  fell  fingering  at  the  staff  of  it 
And  laughed  for  wrath  and  stared  between  his  feet, 
And  out  of  a  chafed  heart  he  spake  as  thus: 
Lo  how  she  japes  at  me  Theophilus, 
Feigning  herself  a  fool  and  hard  to  love; 

258 


ST.  DOROTHY 

Yet  in  good  time  for  all  she  boasteth  of 

She  shall  be  like  a  little  beaten  bird. 

And  while  his  mouth  was  open  in  that  word 

He  came  upon  the  house  Janiculum, 

Where  some  went  busily,  and  other  some 

Talked  in  the  gate  called  the  gate  glorious. 

The  emperor,  which  was  one  Gabalus, 

Sat  over  all  and  drank  chill  wine  alone. 

To  whom  is  come  Theophilus  anon, 

And  said  as  thus:  Beau  sire,  Dieu  vous  aide. 

And  afterward  sat  under  him,  and  said 

All  this  thing  through  as  ye  have  wholly  heard. 

This  Gabalus  laughed  thickly  in  his  beard. 
Yea,  this  is  righteousness  and  maiden  rule. 
Truly,  he  said,  a  maid  is  but  a  fool. 
And  japed  at  them  as  one  full  villainous, 
In  a  lewd  wise,  this  heathen  Gabalus, 
And  sent  his  men  to  bind  her  as  he  bade. 
Thus  have  they  taken  Dorothy  the  maid, 
And  haled  her  forth  as  men  hale  pick-purses: 
A  little  need  God  knows  they  had  of  this, 
To  hale  her  by  her  maiden  gentle  hair. 
Thus  went  she  lowly,  making  a  soft  prayer, 
As  one  who  stays  the  sweet  wine  in  his  mouth, 
Murmuring  with  eased  lips,  and  is  most  loth 
To  have  done  wholly  with  the  sweet  of  it. 

Christ  king,  fair  Christ,  that  knowest  all  men's  wit 
And  all  the  feeble  fashion  of  my  ways, 

0  perfect  God,  that  from  all  yesterdays 
Abidest  whole  with  morrows  perfected, 

1  pray  thee  by  thy  mother's  holy  head 
Thou  help  me  to  do  right,  that  I  not  slip: 

259 


ST.   DOROTHY 

I  have  no  speech  nor  strength  upon  my  lip, 
Except  thou  help  me  who  art  wise  and  sweet. 
Do  this  too  for  those  nails  that  clove  thy  feet, 
Let  me  die  maiden  after  many  pains. 
Though  I  be  least  among  thy  handmaidens, 
Doubtless  I  shall  take  death  more  sweetly  thus. 

Now  have  they  brought  her  to  King  Gabalus, 
Who  laughed  in  all  his  throat  some  breathing-whiles: 
By  God,  he  said,  if  one  should  leap  two  miles, 
He  were  not  pained  about  the  sides  so  much. 
This  were  a  soft  thing  for  a  man  to  touch. 
Shall  one  so  chafe  that  hath  such  little  bones? 
And  shook  his  throat  with  thick  and  chuckled  moans 
For  laughter  that  she  had  such  holiness. 
What  aileth  thee,  wilt  thou  do  services  ? 
It  were  good  fare  to  fare  as  Venus  doth. 

Then  said  this  lady  with  her  maiden  mouth, 
Shamefaced,  and  something  paler  in  the  cheek: 
Now,  sir,  albeit  my  wit  and  will  to  speak 
Give  me  no  grace  in  sight  of  worthy  men, 
For  all  my  shame  yet  know  I  this  again, 
I  may  not  speak,  nor  after  downlying 
Rise  up  to  take  delight  in  lute-playing, 
Nor  sing  nor  sleep,  nor  sit  and  fold  my  hands, 
But  my  soul  in  some  measure  understands 
God's  grace  laid  like  a  garment  over  me. 
For  this  fair  God  that  out  of  strong  sharp  sea 
Lifted  the  shapely  and  green -coloured  land, 
And  hath  the  weight  of  heaven  in  his  hand 
As  ono  might  hold  a  bird,  and  under  him 
The  heavy  golden  planets  beam  by  beam 
Building  the  f easting-chambers  of  his  house, 

260 


ST.  DOROTHY 

And  the  large  world  he  holdeth  with  his  brows, 
And  with  the  light  of  them  astonisheth 
All  place  and  time  and  face  of  life  and  death 
And  motion  of  the  north  wind  and  the  south, 
And  is  the  sound  within  his  angel's  mouth 
Of  singing  words  and  words  of  thanksgiving, 
And  is  the  colour  of  the  latter  spring 
And  heat  upon  the  summer  and  the  sun, 
And  is  beginning  of  all  things  begun 
And  gathers  in  him  all  things  to  their  end, 
And  with  the  fingers  of  his  hand  doth  bend 
The  stretched-out  sides  of  heaven  like  a  sail, 
And  with  his  breath  he  maketh  the  red  pale 
And  fills  with  blood  faint  faces  of  men.  dead, 
And  with  the  sound  between  his  lips  are  fed 
Iron  and  fire  and  the  white  body  of  snow, 
And  blossom  of  all  trees  in  places  low, 
And  small  bright  herbs  about  the  little  hills, 
And  fruit  pricked  softly  with  birds'  tender  bills, 
And  flight  of  foam  about  green  fields  of  sea, 
And  fourfold  strength  of  the  great  winds  that  be 
Moved  always  outward  from  beneath  his  feet, 
And  growth  of  grass  and  growth  of  sheaved  wheat 
And  all  green  flower  of  goodly-growing  lands; 
And  all  these  things  he  gathers  with  his  hands 
And  covers  all  their  beauty  with  his  wings; 
The  same,  even  God  that  governs  all  these  things, 
Hath  set  my  feet  to  be  upon  his  ways. 
Now  therefore  for  no  painfulness  of  days 
I  shall  put  off  this  service  bound  on  me. 
Also,  fair  sir,  ye  know  this  certainly, 
How  God  was  in  his  flesh  full  chaste  and  meek 

261 


ST.  DOROTHY 

And  gave  his  face  to  shame,  and  either  cheek 
Gave  up  to  smiting  of  men  tyrannous. 

And  here  with  a  great  voice  this  Gabalus 
Cried  out  and  said:  By  God's  blood  and  his  bones 
This  were  good  game  betwixen  night  and  nones 
For  one  to  sit  and  hearken  to  such  saws: 
I  were  as  lief  fall  in  some  big  beast's  jaws 
As  hear  these  women's  jaw-teeth  clattering; 
By  God  a  woman  is  the  harder  thing, 
One  may  not  put  a  hook  into  her  mouth. 
Now  by  St.  Luke  I  am  so  sore  adrouth 
For  all  these  saws  I  must  needs  drink  again. 
But  I  pray  God  deliver  all  us  men 
From  all  such  noise  of  women  and  their  heat. 
That  is  a  noble  scripture,  well  I  weet, 
That  likens  women  to  an  empty  can; 
When  God  said  that  he  was  a  full  wise  man. 
I  trow  no  man  may  blame  him  as  for  that. 

And  herewithal  he  drank  a  draught,  and  spat, 
And  said:  Now  shall  I  make  an  end  hereof. 
Come  near  all  men  and  hearken  for  God's  love, 
And  ye  shall  hear  a  jest  or  twain,  God  wot. 
And  spake  as  thus  with  mouth  full  thick  and  hot; 
But  thou  do  this  thou  shalt  be  shortly  slain. 
Lo,  sir,  she  said,  this  death  and  all  this  pain 
I  take  in  penance  of  my  bitter  sins. 
Yea  now,  quoth  Gabalus,  this  game  begins. 
Lo,  without  sin  one  shall  not  live  a  span. 
Lo,  this  is  she  that  would  not  look  on  man 
Between  her  fingers  folded  in  thwart  wise. 
See  how  her  shame  hath  smitten  in  her  eyes 
That  was  so  clean  she  had  not  heard  of  shame. 

262 


ST.  DOROTHY 

Certes,  he  said,  by  Gabalus  my  name, 
This  two  years  back  I  was  not  so  well  pleased. 
This  were  good  mirth  for  sick  men  to  be  eased 
And  rise  up  whole  and  laugh  at  hearing  of. 
I  pray  thee  show  us  something  of  thy  love, 
Since  thou  wast  maid  thy  gown  is  waxen  wide. 
Yea,  maid  I  am,  she  said,  and  somewhat  sighed, 
As  one  who  thought  upon  the  low  fair  house 
Where  she  sat  working,  with  soft  bended  brows 
Watching  her  threads,  among  the  school-maidens. 
And  she  thought  well  now  God  had  brought  her 

thence 
She  should  not  come  to  sew  her  gold  again. 

Then  cried  King  Gabalus  upon  his  men 
To  have  her  forth  and  draw  her  with  steel  gins. 
And  as  a  man  hag-ridden  beats  and  grins 
And  bends  his  body  sidelong  in  his  bed, 
So  wagged  he  with  his  body  and  knave's  head, 
Gaping  at  her,  and  blowing  with  his  breath. 
And  in  good  time  he  gat  an  evil  death 
Out  of  his  lewdness  with  his  cursed  wives: 
His  bones  were  hewn  asunder  as  with  knives 
For  his  misliving,  certes  it  is  said. 
But  all  the  evil  wrought  upon  this  maid, 
It  were  full  hard  for  one  to  handle  it. 
For  her  soft  blood  was  shed  upon  her  feet, 
And  all  her  body's  colour  bruised  and  faint. 
But  she,  as  one  abiding  God's  great  saint, 
Spake  not  nor  wept  for  all  this  travail  hard. 
Wherefore  the  king  commanded  afterward 
To  slay  her  presently  in  all  men's  sight. 
And  it  was  now  an  hour  upon  the  night 

263 


ST.  DOROTHY 

And  winter-time,  and  a  few  stars  began. 
The  weather  was  yet  feeble  and  all  wan 
For  beating  of  a  weighty  wind  and  snow. 
And  she  came  walking  in  soft  wise  and  slow, 
And  many  men  with  faces  piteous. 
Then  came  this  heavy  cursing  Gabalus, 
That  swore  full  hard  into  his  drunken  beard; 
And  faintly  after  without  any  word 
Came  Theophile  some  paces  off  the  king. 
And  in  the  middle  of  this  wayfaring 
Full  tenderly  beholding  her  he  said: 

There  is  no  word  of  comfort  with  men  dead 
Nor  any  face  and  colour  of  things  sweet; 
But  always  with  lean  cheeks  and  lifted  feet 
These  dead  men  lie  all  aching  to  the  blood 
With  bitter  cold,  their  brows  withouten  hood 
Beating  for  chill,  their  bodies  swathed  full  thin: 
Alas,  what  hire  shall  any  have  herein 
To  give  his  life  and  get  such  bitterness? 
Also  the  soul  going  forth  bodiless 
Is  hurt  with  naked  cold,  and  no  man  saith 
If  there  be  house  or  covering  for  death 
To  hide  the  soul  that  is  discomforted. 

Then  she  beholding  him  a  little  said: 
Alas,  fair  lord,  ye  have  no  wit  of  this; 
For  on  one  side  death  is  full  poor  of  bliss 
And  as  ye  say  full  sharp  of  bone  and  lean: 
But  on  the  other  side  is  good  and  green 
And  hath  soft  flower  of  tender-coloured  hair 
Grown  on  his  head,  and  a  red  mouth  as  fair 
As  may  be  kissed  with  lips;  thereto  his  face 
Is  as  God's  face,  and  in  a  perfect  place 
264 


ST.  DOROTHY 

Full  of  all  sun  and  colour  of  straight  boughs 
And  waterheads  about  a  painted  house 
That  hath  a  mile  of  flowers  either  way 
Outward  from  it,  and  blossom-grass  of  May 
Thickening  on  many  a  side  for  length  of  heat, 
Hath  God  set  death  upon  a  noble  seat 
Covered  with  green  and  flowered  in  the  fold, 
In  likeness  of  a  great  king  grown  full  old 
And  gentle  with  new  temperance  of  blood; 
And  on  his  brows  a  purfled  purple  hood, 
They  may  not  carry  any  golden  thing; 
And  plays  some  tune  with  subtle  fingering 
On  a  small  cithern,  full  of  tears  and  sleep 
And  heavy  pleasure  that  is  quick  to  weep 
And  sorrow  with  the  honey  in  her  mouth; 
And  for  this  might  of  music  that  he  doth 
Are  all  souls  drawn  toward  him  with  great  love 
And  weep  for  sweetness  of  the  noise  thereof 
And  bow  to  him  with  worship  of  their  knees; 
And  all  the  field  is  thick  with  companies 
Of  fair-clothed  men  that  play  on  shawms  and  lutes 
And  gather  honey  of  the  yellow  fruits 
Between  the  branches  waxen  soft  and  wide: 
And  all  this  peace  endures  in  either  side 
Of  the  green  land,  and  God  beholdeth  all. 
And  this  is  girdled  with  a  round  fair  wall 
Made  of  red  stone  and  cool  with  heavy  leaves 
Grown  out  against  it,  and  green  blossom  cleaves 
To  the  green  chinks,  and  lesser  wall-weed  sweet, 
Kissing  the  crannies  that  are  split  with  heat, 
And  branches  where  the  summer  draws  to  head. 
And  Theophile  burnt  in  the  cheek,  and  said: 
265 


ST.   DOROTHY 

Yea,  could  one  see  it,  this  were  marvellous. 
I  pray  you,  at  your  coming  to  this  house, 
Give  me  some  leaf  of  all  those  tree-branches; 
Seeing  how  so  sharp  and  white  our  weather  is, 
There  is  no  green  nor  gracious  red  to  see. 

Yea,  sir,  she  said,  that  shall  I  certainly. 
And  from  her  long  sweet  throat  without  a  fleck 
Undid  the  gold,  and  through  her  stretched-out  neck 
The  cold  axe  clove,  and  smote  away  her  head: 
Out  of  her  throat  the  tender  blood  full  red 
Fell  suddenly  through  all  her  long  soft  hair. 
And  with  good  speed  for  hardness  of  the  air 
Each  man  departed  to  his  house  again. 

Lo,  as  fair  colour  in  the  face  of  men 
At  seed-time  of  their  blood,  or  in  such  wise 
As  a  thing  seen  increaseth  in  men's  eyes, 
Caught  first  far  off  by  sickly  fits  of  sight, 
So  a  word  said,  if  one  shall  hear  aright, 
Abides  against  the  season  of  its  growth. 
This  Theophile  went  slowly,  as  one  doth 
That  is  not  sure  for  sickness  of  his  feet; 
And  counting  the  white  stonework  of  the  street, 
Tears  fell  out  of  his  eyes  for  wrath  and  love, 
Making  him  weep  more  for  the  shame  thereof 
Than  for  true  pain:  so  went  he  half  a  mile. 
And  women  mocked  him,  saying:  Theophile, 
Lo,  she  is  dead;  what  shall  a  woman  have 
That  loveth  such  an  one  ?  so  Christ  me  save, 
I  were  as  lief  to  love  a  man  new-hung. 
Surely  this  man  has  bitten  on  his  tongue, 
This  makes  him  sad  and  writhled  in  his  face. 

And  when  they  came  upon  the  paven  place 
266 


ST.   DOROTHY 

That  was  called  sometime  the  place  amorous 

There  came  a  child  before  Theophilus 

Bearing  a  basket,  and  said  suddenly: 

Fair  sir,  this  is  my  mistress  Dorothy 

That  sends  you  gifts;  and  with  this  he  was  gone. 

In  all  this  earth  there  is  not  such  an  one 

For  colour  and  straight  stature  made  so  fair. 

The  tender  growing  gold  of  his  pure  hair 

Was  as  wheat  growing,  and  his  mouth  as  flame. 

God  called  him  Holy  after  his  own  name; 

With  gold  cloth  like  fire  burning  he  was  clad. 

But  for  the  fair  green  basket  that  he  had, 

It  was  filled  up  with  heavy  white  and  red; 

Great  roses  stained  still  where  the  first  rose  bled, 

Burning  at  heart  for  shame  their  heart  withholds: 

And  the  sad  colour  of  strong  marigolds 

That  have  the  sun  to  kiss  their  lips  for  love; 

The  flower  that  Venus'  hair  is  woven  of, 

The  colotir  of  fair  apples  in  the  sun, 

Late  peaches  gathered  when  the  heat  was  done 

And  the  slain  air  got  breath:  and  after  these 

The  fair  faint-headed  poppies  drunk  with  ease, 

And  heaviness  of  hollow  lilies  red. 

Then  cried  they  all  that  saw  these  things,  and  said 
It  was  God's  doing,  and  was  marvellous. 
And  in  brief  while  this  knight  Theophilus 
Is  waxen  full  of  faith,  and  witnesseth 
Before  the  king  of  God  and  love  and  death, 
For  which  the  king  bade  hang  him  presently. 
A  gallows  of  a  goodly  piece  of  tree 
This  Gabalus  hath  made  to  hang  him  on. 
Forth  of  this  world  lo  Theophile  is  gone 
20  267 


ST.  DOROTHY 

With  a  wried  neck,  God  give  us  better  fare 
Than  his  that  hath  a  twisted  throat  to  wear; 
But  truly  for  his  love  God  hath  him  brought 
There  where  his  heavy  body  grieves  him  nought 
Nor  all  the  people  plucking  at  his  feet; 
But  in  his  face  his  lady's  face  is  sweet, 
And  through  his  lips  her  kissing  lips  are  gone: 
God  send  him  peace,  and  joy  of  such  an  one. 
This  is  the  story  of  St.  Dorothy. 
I  will  you  of  your  mercy  pray  for  me 
Because  I  wrote  these  sayings  for  your  grace, 
That  I  may  one  day  see  her  in  the  face. 


THE  TWO   DREAMS 
(FROM  BOCCACCIO) 

I  WILL  that  if  I  say  a  heavy  thing 

Your  tongues  forgive  me ;  seeing  ye  know  that  spring 

Has  flecks  and  fits  of  pain  to  keep  her  sweet, 

And  walks  somewhile  with  winter-bitten  feet. 

Moreover  it  sounds  often  well  to  let 

One  string,  when  ye  play  music,  keep  at  fret 

The  whole  song  through;  one  petal  that  is  dead 

Confirms  the  roses,  be  they  white  or  red; 

Dead  sorrow  is  not  sorrowful  to  hear 

As  the  thick  noise  that  breaks  mid  weeping  were; 

The  sick  sound  aching  in  a  lifted  throat 

Turns  to  sharp  silver  of  a  perfect  note; 

And  though  the  rain  falls  often,  and  with  rain 

Late  autumn  falls  on  the  olci  red  leaves  like  pain, 

I  deem  that  God  is  not  disquieted. 

Also  while  men  are  fed  with  wine  and  bread, 

They  shall  be  fed  with  sorrow  at  his  hand. 

There  grew  a  rose-garden  in  Florence  land 
More  fair  than  many;  all  red  summers  through 
The  leaves  smelt  sweet  and  sharp  of  rain,  and  blew 
Sideways  with  tender  wind;  and  therein  fell 
Sweet  sound  wherewith  the  green  waxed  audible, 

269 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

As  a  bird's  will  to  sing  disturbed  his  throat 
And  set  the  sharp  wings  forward  like  a  boat 
Pushed  through  soft  water,  moving  his  brown  side 
Smooth-shapen  as  a  maid's,  and  shook  with  pride 
His  deep  warm  bosom,  till  the  heavy  sun's 
Set  face  of  heat  stopped  all  the  songs  at  once. 
The  ways  were  clean  to  walk  and  delicate; 
And  when  the  windy  white  of  March  grew  late, 
Before  the  trees  took  heart  to  face  the  sun 
With  ravelled  raiment  of  lean  winter  on, 
The  roots  were  thick  and  hot  with  hollow  grass. 

Some  roods  away  a  lordly  house  there  was, 
Cool  with  broad  courts  and  latticed  passage  wet 
From  rush -flowers  and  lilies  ripe  to  set, 
Sown  close  among  the  stre wings  of  the  floor; 
And  either  wall  of  the  slow  corridor 
Was  dim  with  deep  device  of  gracious  things; 
Some  angel's  steady  mouth  and  weight  of  wings 
Shut  to  the  side;  or  Peter  with  straight  stole 
And  beard  cut  black  against  the  aureole 
That  spanned  his  head  from  nape  to  crown;  thereby 
Mary's  gold  hair,  thick  to  the  girdle-tie 
Wherein  was  bound  a  child  with  tender  feet; 
Or  the  broad  cross  with  blood  nigh  brown  on  it. 

Within  this  house  a  righteous  lord  abode, 
Ser  Averardo;  patient  of  his  mood, 
And  just  of  judgment;  and  to  child  he  had 
A  maid  so  sweet  that  her  mere  sight  made  glad 
Men  sorrowing,  and  unbound  the  brows  of  hate; 
And  where  she  came,  the  lips  that  pain  made  strait 
Waxed  warm  and  wide,  and  from  untender  grew 
Tender  as  those  that  sleep  brings  patience  to. 

270 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Such  long  locks  had  she,  that  with  knee  to  chin 
She  might  have  wrapped   and   warmed   her   feet 

therein. 

Right  seldom  fell  her  face  on  weeping  wise; 
Gold  hair  she  had,  and  golden-coloured  eyes, 
Filled  with  clear  light  and  fire  and  large  repose 
Like  a  fair  hound's;  no  man  there  is  but  knows 
Her  face  was  white,  and  thereto  she  was  tall; 
In  no  wise  lacked  there  any  praise  at  all 
To  her  most  perfect  and  pure  maidenhood; 
No  sin  I  think  there  was  in  all  her  blood. 

She,  where  a  gold  grate  shut  the  roses  in, 
Dwelt  daily  through  deep  summer  weeks,  through 

green 

Flushed  hours  of  rain  upon  the  leaves;  and  there 
Love  made  him  room  and  space  to  worship  her 
With  tender  worship  of  bowed  knees,  and  wrought 
Such  pleasure  as  the  pained  sense  palates  not 
For  weariness,  but  at  one  taste  undoes 
The  heart  of  its  strong  sweet,  is  ravenous 
Of  all  the  hidden  honey;  words  and  sense 
Fail  through  the  tune's  imperious  prevalence. 

In  a  poor  house  this  lover  kept  apart, 
Long  communing  with  patience  next  his  heart 
If  love  of  his  might  move  that  face  at  all, 
Tuned  evenwise  with  colours  musical; 
Then  after  length  of  days  he  said  thus:  "Love, 
For  love's  own  sake  and  for  the  love  thereof 
Let  no  harsh  words  untune  your  gracious  mood ; 
For  good  it  were,  if  anything  be  good, 
To  comfort  me  in  this  pain's  plague  of  mine; 
Seeing  thus,  how  neither  sleep  nor  bread  nor  wine 

271 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Seems  pleasant  to  me,  yea  no  thing  that  is 

Seems  pleasant  to  me;  only  I  know  this, 

Love's  ways  are  sharp  for  palms  of  piteous  feet 

To  travel,  but  the  end  of  such  is  sweet: 

Now  do  with  me  as  seetneth  you  the  best." 

She  mused  a  little,  as  one  holds  his  guest 

By  the  hand  musing,  with  her  face  borne  down : 

Then  said:  "Yea,  though  such  bitter  seed  be  sown, 

Have  no  more  care  of  all  that  you  have  said; 

Since  if  there  is  no  sleep  will  bind  your  head, 

Lo,  I  am  fain  to  help  you  certainly; 

Christ  knoweth,  sir,  if  I  would  have  you  die; 

There  is  no  pleasure  when  a  man  is  dead." 

Thereat  he  kissed  her  hands  and  yellow  head 

And  clipped  her  fair  long  body  many  times; 

I  have  no  wit  to  shape  in  written  rhymes 

A  scanted  tithe  of  this  great  joy  they  had. 

They  were  too  near  love's  secret  to  be  glad; 
As  whoso  deems  the  core  will  surely  melt 
From  the  warm  fruit  his  lips  caress,  hath  felt 
Some  bitter  kernel  where  the  teeth  shut  hard: 
Or  as  sweet  music  sharpens  afterward, 
Being  half  disrelished  both  for  sharp  and  sweet; 
As  sea-water,  having  killed  over-heat 
In  a  man's  body,  chills  it  with  faint  ache; 
So  their  sense,  burdened  only  for  love's  sake, 
Failed  for  pure  love;  yet  so  time  served  their  wit, 
They  saved  each  day  some  gold  reserves  of  it, 
Being  wiser  in  love's  riddle  than  such  be 
Whom  fragments  feed  with  his  chance  charity. 
All  things  felt  sweet  were  felt  sweet  overmuch; 
The  rose-thorn's  prickle  dangerous  to  touch, 

272 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

And  flecks  of  fire  in  the  thin  leaf -shadows ; 
Too  keen  the  breathed  honey  of  the  rose, 
Its  red  too  harsh  a  weight  on  feasted  eyes; 
They  were  so  far  gone  in  love's  histories, 
Beyond  all  shape  and  colour  and  mere  breath, 
Where  pleasure  has  for  kinsfolk  sleep  and  death, 
And  strength  of  soul  and  body  waxen  blind 
For  weariness,  and  flesh  en  toiled  with  mind, 
When  the  keen  edge  of  sense  foretasteth  sin. 

Even  this  green  place  the  summer  caught  them  in 
Seemed  half  deflowered  and  sick  with  beaten  leaves 
In  their  strayed  eyes;  these  gold  flower-fumed  eves 
Burnt  out  to  make  the  sun's  love-offering, 
The  midnoon's  prayer,  the  rose's  thanksgiving, 
The  trees'  weight  burdening  the  strengthless  air, 
The  shape  of  her  stilled  eyes,  her  coloured  hair, 
Her  body's  balance  from  the  moving  feet — 
All  this,  found  fair,  lacked  yet  one  grain  of  sweet 
It  had  some  warm  weeks  back:  so  perisheth 
On  May's  new  lip  the  tender  April  breath: 
So  those  same  walks  the  wind  sowed  lilies  in 
All  April  through,  and  all  their  latter  kin 
Of  languid  leaves  whereon  the  Autumn  blows — 
The  dead  red  raiment  of  the  last  year's  rose — 
The  last  year's  laurel,  and  the  last  year's  love, 
Fade,  and  grow  things  that  death  grows  weary  of. 

What  man  will  gather  in  red  summer-time 
The  fruit  of  some  obscure  and  hoary  rhyme 
Heard  last  midwinter,  taste  the  heart  in  it, 
Mould  the  smooth  semitones  afresh,  refit 
The  fair  limbs  ruined,  flush  the  dead  blood  through 
With  colour,  make  all  broken  beauties  new 

273 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

For  love's  new  lesson — shall  not  such  find  pain 

When  the  marred  music  labouring  in  his  brain 

Frets  him  with  sweet  sharp  fragments,  and  lets  slip 

One  word  that  might  leave  satisfied  his  lip — 

One  touch  that  might  put  fire  in  all  the  chords? 

This  was  her  pain:  to  miss  from  all  sweet  words 

Some  taste  of  sound,  diverse  and  delicate — 

Some  speech  the  old  love  found  out  to  compensate 

For  seasons  of  shut  lips  and  drowsiness — 

Some  grace,  some  word  the  old  love  found  out  to  bless 

Passionless  months  and  undelighted  weeks. 

The  flowers  had  lost  their  summer-scented  cheeks, 

Their  lips  were  no  more  sweet  than  daily  breath  : 

The  year  was  plagued  with  instances  of  death. 

So  fell  it,  these  were  sitting  in  cool  grass 
With  leaves  about,  and  many  a  bird  there  was 
Where  the  green  shadow  thickliest  impleached 
Soft  fruit  and  writhen  spray  and  blossom  bleached 
Dry  in  the  sun  or  washed  with  rains  to  white: 
Her  girdle  was  pure  silk,  the  bosom  bright 
With  purple  as  purple  water  and  gold  wrought  in. 
One  branch  had  touched  with  dusk  her  lips  and  chin, 
Made  violet  of  the  throat,  abashed  with  shade 
The  breast's  bright  plaited  work:  but  nothing  frayed 
The  sun's  large  kiss  on  the  luxurious  hair. 
Her  beauty  was  new  colour  to  the  air 
And  music  to  the  silent  many  birds. 
Love  was  an-hungred  for  some  perfect  words 
To  praise  her  with;  but  only  her  low  name 
"Andrevuola"  came  thrice,  and  thrice  put  shame 
In  her  clear  cheek,  so  fruitful  with  new  red 
That  for  pure  love  straightway  shame's  self  was  dead. 

274 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Then  with  lids  gathered  as  who  late  had  wept 
She  began  saying:  "I  have  so  little  slept 
My  lids  drowse  now  against  the  very  sun; 
Yea,  the  brain  aching  with  a  dream  begun 
Beats  like  a  fitful  blood;  kiss  but  both  brows, 
And  you  shall  pluck  my  thoughts  grown  dangerous 
Almost  away."    He  said  thus,  kissing  them: 
"O  sole  sweet  thing  that  God  is  glad  to  name, 
My  one  gold  gift,  if  dreams  be  sharp  and  sore 
Shall  not  the  waking  time  increase  much  more 
With  taste    and  sound,  sweet    eyesight   or   sweet 

scent  ? 

Has  any  heat  too  hard  and  insolent 
Burnt  bare  the  tender  married  leaves,  undone 
The  maiden  grass  shut  under  from  the  sun  ? 
Where  in  this  world  is  room  enough  for  pain?" 

The  feverish  finger  of  love  had  touched  again 
Her  lips  with  happier  blood;  the  pain  lay  meek 
In  her  fair  face,  nor  altered  lip  nor  cheek 
With  pallor  or  with  pulse;  but  in  her  mouth 
Love  thirsted  as  a  man  wayfaring  doth, 
Making  it  humble  as  weak  hunger  is. 
She  lay  close  to  him,  bade  do  this  and  this, 
Say  that,  sing  thus:  then  almost  weeping-ripe 
Crouched,  then  laughed  low.     As  one  that  fain  would 

wipe 

The  old  record  out  of  old  things  done  and  dead, 
She  rose,  she  heaved  her  hands  up,  and  waxed  red 
For  wilful  heart  and  blameless  fear  of  blame; 
Saying  "Though  my  wits  be  weak,  this  is  no  shame 
For  a  poor  maid  whom  love  so  punisheth 
With  heats  of  hesitation  and  stopped  breath 

275 


That  with  my  dreams  I  live  yet  heavily 
For  pure  sad  heart  and  faith's  humility. 
Now  be  not  wroth  and  I  will  show  you  this. 

"Methought  our  lips  upon  their  second  kiss 
Met  in  this  place,  and  a  fair  day  we  had 
And  fair  soft  leaves  that  waxed  and  were  not  sad 
With  shaken  rain  or  bitten  through  with  drouth; 
When  I,  beholding  ever  how  your  mouth 
Waited  for  mine,  the  throat  being  fallen  back, 
Saw  crawl  thereout  a  live  thing  flaked  with  black 
Specks  of  brute  slime  and  leper-coloured  scale, 
A  devil's  hide  with  foul  flame-writhen  grail 
Fashioned  where  hell's  heat  festers  loathsomest; 
And  that  brief  speech  may  ease  me  of  the  rest, 
Thus  were  you  slain  and  eaten  of  the  thing. 
My  waked  eyes  felt  the  new  day  shuddering 
On  their  low  lids,  felt  the  whole  east  so  beat, 
Pant  with  close  pulse  of  such  a  plague-struck  heat, 
As  if  the  palpitating  dawn  drew  breath 
For  horror,  breathing  between  life  and  death, 
Till  the  sun  sprang  blood-bright  and  violent" 

So  finishing,  her  soft  strength  wholly  spent, 
She  gazed  each  way,  lest  some  brute-hooved  thing, 
The  timeless  travail  of  hell's  childbearing, 
Should  threat  upon  the  sudden :  whereat  he, 
For  relish  of  her  tasted  misery 
And  tender  little  thornprick  of  her  pain, 
Laughed  with  mere  love.     What  lover  among  men 
But  hath  his  sense  fed  sovereignly  'twixt  whiles 
With  tears  and  covered  eyelids  and  sick  smiles 
And  soft  disaster  of  a  pained  face? 
What  pain,  established  in  so  sweet  a  place, 

276 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

But  the  plucked  leaf  of  it  smells  fragrantly  ? 
What  colour  burning  man's  wide-open  eye 
But  may  be  pleasurably  seen?  what  sense 
Keeps  in  its  hot  sharp  extreme  violence 
No  savour  of  sweet  things  ?     The  bereaved  blood 
And  emptied  flesh  in  their  most  broken  mood 
Fail  not  so  wholly,  famish  not  when  thus 
Past  honey  keeps  the  starved  lip  covetous. 

Therefore  this  speech  from  a  glad  mouth  began, 
Breathed  in  her  tender  hair  and  temples  wan 
Like  one  prolonged  kiss  while  the  lips  had  breath: 
"Sleep,  that  abides  in  vassalage  of  death 
And  in  death's  service  wears  out  half  his  age, 
Hath  his  dreams  full  of  deadly  vassalage, 
Shadow  and  sound  of  things  ungracious; 
Fair  shallow  faces,  hooded  bloodless  brows, 
And  mouths  past  kissing;  yea,  myself  have  had 
As  harsh  a  dream  as  holds  your  eyelids  sad. 

"This  dream  I  tell  you  came  three  nights  ago; 
In  full  mid  sleep  I  took  a  whim  to  know 
How  sweet  things  might  be;  so  I  turned  and  thought; 
But  save  my  dream  all  sweet  availed  me  not. 
First  came  a  smell  of  pounded  spice  and  scent 
Such  as  God  ripens  in  some  continent 
Of  utmost  amber  in  the  Syrian  sea; 
And  breaths  as  though  some  costly  rose  could  be 
Spoiled  slowly,  wasted  by  some  bitter  fire 
To  burn  the  sweet  out  leaf  by  leaf,  and  tire 
The  flower's  poor  heart  with  heat  and  waste,  to  make 
Strong  magic  for  some  perfumed  woman's  sake. 
Then  a  cool  naked  sense  beneath  my  feet 
Of  bud  and  blossom;  and  sound  of  veins  that  beat 

277 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

As  if  a  lute  should  play  of  its  own  heart 

And  fearfully,  not  smitten  of  either  part; 

And  all  my  blood  it  filled  with  sharp  and  sweet 

As  gold  swoln  grain  fills  out  the  husked  wheat; 

So  I  rose  naked  from  the  bed,  and  stood 

Counting  the  mobile  measure  in  my  blood 

Some  pleasant  while,  and  through  each  limb  there 

came 

Swift  little  pleasures  pungent  as  a  flame, 
Felt  in  the  thrilling  flesh  and  veins  as  much 
As  the  outer  curls  that  feel  the  comb's  first  touch 
Thrill  to  the  roots  and  shiver  as  from  fire; 
And  blind  between  my  dream  and  my  desire 
I  seemed  to  stand  and  held  my  spirit  still 
Lest   this    should    cease.     A   child   whose    fingers 

spill 

Honey  from  cells  forgotten  of  the  bee 
Is  less  afraid  to  stir  the  hive  and  see 
Some  wasp's  bright  back  inside,  than  I  to  feel 
Some  finger-touch  disturb  the  flesh  like  steel. 
I  prayed  thus;  Let  me  catch  a  secret  here 
So  sweet,  it  sharpens  the  sweet  taste  of  fear 
And  takes  the  mouth  with  edge  of  wine;  I  would 
Have  here  some  colour  and  smooth  shape  as  good 
As  those  in  heaven  whom  the  chief  garden  hides 
With  low  grape-blossom  veiling  their  white  sides 
And  lesser  tendrils  that  so  bind  and  blind 
Their  eyes  and  feet,  that  if  one  come  behind 
To  touch  their  hair  they  see  not,  neither  fly; 
This  would  I  see  in  heaven  and  not  die. 
So  praying,  I  had  nigh  cried  out  and  knelt, 
So  wholly  my  prayer  filled  me:  till  I  felt 

278 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

In  the  dumb  night's  warm  weight  of  glowing  gloom 
Somewhat  that  altered  all  my  sleeping  room, 
And  made  it  like  a  green  low  place  wherein 
Maids  mix  to  bathe:  one  sets  her  small  warm  chin 
Against  a  ripple,  that  the  angry  pearl 
May  flow  like  flame  about  her:  the  next  curl 
Dips  in  some  eddy  coloured  of  the  sun 
To  wash  the  dust  well  out;  another  one 
Holds  a  straight  ankle  in  her  hand  and  swings 
With  lavish  body  sidelong,  so  that  rings 
Of  sweet  fierce  water,  swollen  and  splendid,  fail. 
All  round  her  fine  and  floated  body  pale, 
Swayed  flower-fashion,  and  her  balanced  side 
Swerved  edgeways  lets  the  weight  of  water  slide, 
As  taken  in  some  underflow  of  sea 
Swerves  the  banked  gold  of  sea-flowers;  but  she 
Pulls  down  some  branch  to  keep  her  perfect  head 
Clear  of  the  river:  even  from  wall  to  bed, 
I  tell  you,  was  my  room  transfigured  so. 
Sweet,  green  and  warm  it  was,  nor  could  one  know 
If  there  were  walls  or  leaves,  or  if  there  was 
No  bed's  green  curtain,  but  mere  gentle  grass. 
There  were  set  also  hard  against  the  feet 
Gold  plates  with  honey  and  green  grapes  to  eat, 
With  the  cool  water's  noise  to  hear  in  rhymes: 
And  a  wind  warmed  me  full  of  furze  and  limes 
And  all  hot  sweets  the  heavy  summer  fills 
To  the  round  brim  of  smooth  cup-shapen  hills. 
Next  the  grave  walking  of  a  woman's  feet 
Made  my  veins  hesitate,  and  gracious  heat 
Made  thick  the  lids  and  leaden  on  mine  eyes: 
And  I  thought  ever,  surely  it  were  wise 

279 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Not  yet  to  see  her:  this  may  last  (who  knows?) 
Five  minutes;  the  poor  rose  is  twice  a  rose 
Because  it  turns  a  face  to  her,  the  wind 
Sings  that  way;  hath  this  woman  ever  sinned, 
I  wonder?  as  a  boy  with  apple-rind, 
I  played  with  pleasures,  made  them  to  my  mind, 
Changed   each   ere   tasting.     When   she   came   in- 
deed, 

First  her  hair  touched  me,  then  I  grew  to  feed 
On  the  sense  of  her  hand;  her  mouth  at  last 
Touched  me  between  the  cheek  and  lip  and  past 
Over  my  face  with  kisses  here  and  there 
Sown  in  and  out  across  the  eyes  and  hair. 
Still  I  said  nothing;  till  she  set  her  face 
More  close  and  harder  on  the  kissing-place, 
And  her  mouth  caught  like  a  snake's  mouth,  and 

.  stung 

So  faint  and  tenderly,  the  fang  scarce  clung 
More  than  a  bird's  foot:  yet  a  wound  it  grew, 
A  great  one,  let  this  red  mark  witness  you 
Under  the  left  breast;  and  the  stroke  thereof 
So  clove  my  sense  that  I  woke  out  of  love 
And  knew  not  what  this  dream  was  nor  had  wit; 
But  now  God  knows  if  I  have  skill  of  it." 

Hereat  she  laid  one  palm  against  her  lips 
To  stop  their  trembling;  as  when  water  slips 
Out  of  a  beak-mouthed  vessel  with  faint  noise 
And  chuckles  in  the  narrowed  throat  and  cloys 
The  carven  rims  with  murmuring,  so  came 
Words  in  her  lips  with  no  word  right  of  them, 
A  beaten  speech  thick  and  disconsolate, 
Till  his  smile  ceasing  waxed  compassionate 

280 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Of  her  sore  fear  that  grew  from  anything — 
The  sound  of  the  strong  summer  thickening 
In  heated  leaves  of  the  smooth  apple-trees : 
The  day's  breath  felt  about  the  ash-branches, 
And  noises  of  the  noon  whose  weight  still  grew 
On  the  hot  heavy-headed  flowers,  and  drew 
Their  red  mouths  open  till  the  rose-heart  ached; 
For  eastward  all  the  crowding  rose  was  slaked 
And  soothed  with  shade :  but  westward  all  its  growth 
Seemed  to  breathe  hard  with  heat  as  a  man  doth 
Who  feels  his  temples  newly  feverous. 
And  even  with  such  motion  in  her  brows 
As  that  man  hath  in  whom  sick  days  begin, 
She  turned  her  throat  and  spake,  her  voice  being  thin 
As  a  sick  man's,  sudden  and  tremulous; 
"Sweet,  if  this  end  be  come  indeed  on  us, 
Let  us  love  more;"  and  held  his  mouth  with  hers. 
As  the  first  sound  of  flooded  hill-waters 
Is  heard  by  people  of  the  meadow-grass, 
Or  ever  a  wandering  waif  of  ruin  pass 
With  whirling  stones  and  foam  of  the  brown  stream 
Flaked  with  fierce  yellow:  so  beholding  him 
She  felt  before  tears  came  her  eyelids  wet, 
Saw  the  face  deadly  thin  where  life  was  yet, 
Heard  his  throat's  harsh  last  moan  before  it  clomb: 
And  he,  with  close  mouth  passionate  and  dumb, 
Burned  at  her  lips:  so  lay  they  without  speech, 
Each  grasping  other,  and  the  eyes  of  each 
Fed  in  the  other's  face:  till  suddenly 
He  cried  out  with  a  little  broken  cry 
This  word,  "O  help  me,  sweet,  I  am  but  dead." 
And  even  so  saying,  the  colour  of  fair  red 

281 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

Was  gone  out  of  his  face,  and  his  blood's  beat 
Fell,  and  stark  death  made  sharp  his  upward  feet 
And  pointed  hands:  and  without  moan  he  died. 
Pain  smote  her  sudden  in  the  brows  and  side, 
Strained  her  lips  open  and  made  burn  her  eyes: 
For  the  pure  sharpness  of  her  miseries 
She  had  no  heart's  pain,  but  mere  body's  wrack; 
But  at  the  last  her  beaten  blood  drew  back 
Slowly  upon  her  face,  and  her  stunned  brows 
Suddenly  grown  aware  and  piteous 
Gathered  themselves,  her  eyes  shone,  her  hard  breath 
Came  as  though  one  nigh  dead  came  back  from  death ; 
Her  lips  throbbed,  and  life  trembled  through  her  hair. 

And  in  brief  while  she  thought  to  bury  there 
The  dead  man  that  her  love  might  lie  with  him 
In  a  sweet  bed  under  the  rose-roots  dim 
And  soft  earth  round  the  branched  apple-trees, 
Full  of  hushed  heat  and  heavy  with  great  ease, 
And  no  man  entering  divide  him  thence. 
Wherefore  she  bade  one  of  her  handmaidens 
To  be  her  help  to  do  upon  this  wise. 
And  saying  so  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes 
Fell  without  noise  and  comforted  her  heart: 
Yea,  her  great  pain  eased  of  the  sorest  part 
Began  to  soften  in  her  sense  of  it. 
There  under  all  the  little  branches  sweet 
The  place  was  shapen  of  his  burial; 
They  shed  thereon  no  thing  funereal, 
But  coloured  leaves  of  latter  rose-blossom, 
Stems  of  soft  grass,  some  withered  red  and  some 
Fair  and  fresh -blooded;  and  spoil  splendider 
Of  marigold  and  great  spent  sunflower. 

282 


THE  TWO  DREAMS 

And  afterward  she  came  back  without  word 
To  her  own  house;  two  days  went,  and  the  third 
Went,  and  she  showed  her  father  of  this  thing. 
And  for  great  grief  of  her  soul's  travailing 
He  gave  consent  she  should  endure  in  peace 
Till  her  life's  end;  yea,  till  her  time  should  cease, 
She  should  abide  in  fellowship  of  pain. 
And  having  lived  a  holy  year  or  twain 
She  died  of  pure  waste  heart  and  weariness. 
And  for  love's  honour  in  her  love's  distress 
This  word  was  written  over  her  tomb's  head; 
"Here  dead  she  lieth,  for  whose  sake  Love  is  dead." 


AHOLIBAH 

IN  the  beginning  God  made  thee 
A  woman  well  to  look  upon, 

Thy  tender  body  as  a  tree 

Whereon  cool  wind  hath  always  blown 
Till  the  clean  branches  be  well  grown. 

There  was  none  like  thee  in  the  land; 
The  girls  that  were  thy  bondwomen 

Did  bind  thee  with  a  purple  band 
Upon  thy  forehead,  that  all  men 
Should  know  thee  for  God's  handmaiden. 

Strange  raiment  clad  thee  like  a  bride, 
With  silk  to  wear  on  hands  and  feet 

And  plates  of  gold  on  either  side: 

Wine  made  thee  glad,  and  thou  didst  eat 
Honey,  and  choice  of  pleasant  meat. 

And  fishers  in  the  middle  sea 

Did  get  thee  sea-fish  and  sea-weeds 

In  colour  like  the  robes  on  thee; 

And  curious  work  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  wools  wherein  live  purple  bleeds. 
284 


AHOLIBAH 

And  round  the  edges  of  thy  cup 

Men  wrought  thee  marvels  out  of  gold, 

Strong  snakes  with  lean  throats  lifted  up, 
Large  eyes  whereon  the  brows  had  hold, 
And  scaly  things  their  slime  kept  cold. 

For  thee  they  blew  soft  wind  in  flutes 

And  ground  sweet  roots  for  cunning  scent; 

Made  slow  because  of  many  lutes, 

The  wind  among  thy  chambers  went 
Wherein  no  light  was  violent. 

God  called  thy  name  Aholibah, 
His  tabernacle  being  in  thee, 

A  witness  through  waste  Asia; 

Thou  wert  a  tent  sewn  cunningly 
With  gold  and  colours  of  the  sea. 

God  gave  thee  gracious  ministers 

And  all  their  work  who  plait  and  weave: 

The  cunning  of  embroiderers 

That  sew  the  pillow  to  the  sleeve, 
And  likeness  of  all  things  that  live. 

Thy  garments  upon  thee  were  fair 

With  scarlet  and  with  yellow  thread; 

Also  the  weaving  of  thine  hair 

Was  as  fine  gold  upon  thy  head, 

And  thy  silk  shoes  were  sewn  with  red. 

All  sweet  things  he  bade  sift,  and  ground 

As  a  man  grindeth  wheat  in  mills 

285 


AHOLIBAH 

With  strong  wheels  always  going  round; 
He  gave  thee  corn,  and  grass  that  fills 
The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills 

The  wine  of  many  seasons  fed 

Thy  mouth,  and  made  it  fair  and  clean; 

Sweet  oil  was  poured  out  on  thy  head 
And  ran  down  like  cool  rain  between 
The  strait  close  locks  it  melted  in. 

The  strong  men  and  the  captains  knew 
Thy  chambers  wrought  and  fashioned 

With  gold  and  covering  of  blue, 

And  the  blue  raiment  of  thine  head 
Who  satest  on  a  stately  bed. 

All  these  had  on  their  garments  wrought 

The  shape  of  beasts  and  creeping  things, 

The  body  that  availeth  not, 

Flat  backs  of  worms  and  veined  wings, 
And  the  lewd  bulk  that  sleeps  and  stings. 

Also  the  chosen  of  the  years, 

The  multitude  being  at  ease, 

With  sackbuts  and  with  dulcimers 

And  noise  of  shawms  and  psalteries 
Made  mirth  within  the  ears  of  these. 

But  as  a  common  woman  doth, 

Thou  didst  think  evil  and  devise; 

The  sweet  smell  of  thy  breast  and  mouth 
Thou  madest  as  the  harlot's  wise, 
And  there  was  painting  on  thine  eyes. 
286 


AHOLIBAH 

Yea,  in  the  woven  guest-chamber 
And  by  the  painted  passages 

Where  the  strange  gracious  paintings  were, 
State  upon  state  of  companies, 
There  came  on  thee  the  lust  of  these. 

Because  of  shapes  on  either  wall 

Sea-coloured  from  some  rare  blue  shell 

At  many  a  Tyrian  interval, 

Horsemen  on  horses,  girdled  well, 
Delicate  and  desirable, 

Thou  saidest:  I  am  sick  of  love: 

Stay  me  with  flagons,  comfort  me 

With  apples  for  my  pain  thereof 

Till  my  hands  gather  in  his  tree 
That  fruit  wherein  my  lips  would  be. 

Yea,  saidest  thou,  I  will  go  up 

When  there  is  no  more  shade  than  one 

May  cover  with  a  hollow  cup, 

And  make  my  bed  against  the  sun 
Till  my  blood's  violence  be  done. 

Thy  mouth  was  leant  upon  the  wall 

Against  the  painted  mouth,  thy  chin 

Touched  the  hair's  painted  curve  and  fall; 
Thy  deep  throat,  fallen  lax  and  thin, 
Worked  as  the  blood's  beat  worked  therein. 

Therefore,  O  thou  Aholibah, 

God  is  not  glad  because  of  thee; 
287 


AHOLIBAH 

And  thy  fine  gold  shall  pass  away 

Like  those  fair  coins  of  ore  that  be 
Washed  over  by  the  middle  sea. 

Then  will  one  make  thy  body  bare 
To  strip  it  of  all  gracious  things, 

And  pluck  the  cover  from  thine  hair, 
And  break  the  gift  of  many  kings, 
Thy  wrist-rings  and  thine  ankle-rings. 

Likewise  the  man  whose  body  joins 
To  thy  smooth  body,  as  was  said, 

Who  hath  a  girdle  on  his  loins 

And  dyed  attire  upon  his  head — 
The  same  who,  seeing,  worshipped, 

Because  thy  face  was  like  the  face 

Of  a  clean  maiden  that  smells  sweet, 

Because  thy  gait  was  as  the  pace 
Of  one  that  opens  not  her  feet 
And  is  not  heard  within  the  street — 

Even  he,  O  thou  Aholibah, 

Made  separate  from  thy  desire, 
Shall  cut  thy  nose  and  ears  away 

And  bruise  thee  for  thy  body's  hire 

And  burn  the  residue  with  fire. 

Then  shall  the  heathen  people  say, 

The  multitude  being  at  ease; 
Lo,  this  is  that  Aholibah 

Whose  name  was  blown  among  strange  seas, 

Grown  old  with  soft  adulteries. 
288 


AHOLIBAH 

Also  her  bed  was  made  of  green, 
Her  windows  beautiful  for  glass 

That  she  had  made  her  bed  between: 
Yea,  for  pure  lust  her  body  was 
Made  like  white  summer-coloured  grass. 

Her  raiment  was  a  strong  man's  spoil ; 
Upon  a  table  by  a  bed 

She  set  mine  incense  and  mine  oil 
To  be  the  beauty  of  her  head 
In  chambers  walled  about  with  red. 

Also  between  the  walls  she  had 

Fair  faces  of,  strong  men  portrayed ; 

All  girded  round  the  loins,  and  clad 
With  several  cloths  of  woven  braid 
And  garments  marvellously  made. 

Therefore  the  wrath  of  God  shall  be 
Set  as  a  watch  upon  her  way; 

And  whoso  findeth  by  the  sea 

Blown  dust  of  bones  will  hardly  say 
If  this  were  that  Aholibah. 


LOVE  AND  SLEEP 

LYING  asleep  between  the  strokes  of  night 
I  saw  my  love  lean  over  my  sad  bed, 
Pale  as  the  duskiest  lily's  leaf  or  head, 

Smooth-skinned  and  dark,  with  bare  throat  made  to 
bite, 

Too  wan  for  blushing  and  too  warm  for  white, 
But  perfect-coloured  without  white  or  red. 
And  her  lips  opened  amorously,  and  said — 

I  wist  not  what,  saving  one  word — Delight. 

And  all  her  face  was  honey  to  my  mouth, 
And  all  her  body  pasture  to  mine  eyes; 

The  long  lithe  arms  and  hotter  hands  than  fire, 

The  quivering  flanks,  hair  smelling  of  the  south, 
The  bright  light  feet,  the  splendid  supple  thighs 
And  glittering  eyelids  of  my  soul's  desire. 


MADONNA  MIA 

UNDER  green  apple-boughs 
That  never  a  storm  will  rouse, 
My  lady  hath  her  house 

Between  two  bowers; 
In  either  of  the  twain 
Red  roses  full  of  rain; 
She  hath  for  bondwomen 

All  kind  of  flowers. 

She  hath  no  handmaid  fair 
To  draw  her  curled  gold  hair 
Through  rings  of  gold  that  bear 

Her  whole  hair's  weight; 
She  hath  no  maids  to  stand 
Gold-clothed  on  either  hand; 
In  all  the  great  green  land 

None  is  so  great. 

She  hath  no  more  to  wear 
But  one  white  hood  of  vair 
Drawn  over  eyes  and  hair, 
Wrought  with  strange  gold, 
Made  for  some  great  queen's  head, 
Some  fair  great  queen  since  dead; 
And  one  strait  gown  of  red 
Against  the  cold. 
291 


MADONNA  MIA 

Beneath  her  eyelids  deep 
Love  lying  seems  asleep, 
Love,  swift  to  wake,  to  weep, 

To  laugh,  to  gaze; 
Her  breasts  are  like  white  birds, 
And  all  her  gracious  words 
As  water-grass  to  herds 

In  the  June-days. 

To  her  all  dews  that  fall 
And  rains  are  musical; 
Her  flowers  are  fed  from  all, 

Her  joy  from  these; 
In  the  deep-feathered  firs 
Their  gift  of  joy  is  hers, 
In  the  least  breath  that  stirs 

Across  the  trees. 

She  grows  with  greenest  leaves, 
Ripens  with  reddest  sheaves, 
Forgets,  remembers,  grieves, 

And  is  not  sad; 
The  quiet  lands  and  skies 
Leave  light  upon  her  eyes; 
None  knows  her,  weak  or  wise, 

Or  tired  or  glad. 

None  knows,  none  understands, 
What  flowers  are  like  her  hands; 
Though  you  should  search  all  lands 
Wherein  time  grows, 
292 


MADONNA  MIA 

What  snows  are  like  her  feet, 
Though  his  eyes  burn  with  heat 
Through  gazing  on  my  sweet, 
Yet  no  man  knows. 

Only  this  thing  is  said; 

That  white  and  gold  and  red, 

God's  three  chief  words,  man's  bread 

And  oil  and  wine, 
Were  given  her  for  dowers, 
And  kingdom  of  all  hours, 
And  grace  of  goodly  flowers 

And  various  vine. 

This  is  my  lady's  praise: 
God  after  many  days 
Wrought  her  in  unknown  ways, 

In  sunset  lands; 
This  was  my  lady's  birth; 
God  gave  her  might  and  mirth 
And  laid  his  whole  sweet  earth 

Between  her  hands. 

Under  deep  apple-boughs 
My  lady  hath  her  house; 
She  wears  upon  her  brows 

The  flower  thereof; 
All  saying  but  what  God  saith 
To  her  is  as  vain  breath; 
She  is  more  strong  than  death, 

Being  strong  as  love. 


THE  KING'S  DAUGHTER 

WE  were  ten  maidens  in  the  green  corn, 

Small  red  leaves  in  the  mill-water: 
Fairer  maidens  never  were  born, 

Apples  of  gold  for  the  king's  daughter. 

We  were  ten  maidens  by  a  well-head, 

Small  white  birds  in  the  mill-water: 
Sweeter  maidens  never  were  wed, 

Rings  of  red  for  the  king's  daughter. 

The  first  to  spin,  the  second  to  sing, 

Seeds  of  wheat  in  the  mill-water; 
The  third  may  was  a  goodly  thing, 

White  bread  and  brown  for  the  king's  daughter. 

The  fourth  to  sew  and  the  fifth  to  play, 

Fair  green  weed  in  the  mill-water; 
The  sixth  may  was  a  goodly  may, 

White  wine  and  red  for  the  king's  daughter. 

The  seventh  to  woo,  the  eighth  to  wed, 

Fair  thin  reeds  in  the  mill-water; 
The  ninth  had  gold  work  on  her  head, 

Honey  in  the  comb  for  the  king's  daughter. 
294 


THE  KING'S  DAUGHTER 

The  ninth  had  gold  work  round  her  hair, 
Fallen  flowers  in  the  mill-water; 

The  tenth  may  was  goodly  and  fair, 
Golden  gloves  for  the  king's  daughter. 

We  were  ten  maidens  in  a  field  green, 
Fallen  fruit  in  the  mill -water; 

Fairer  maidens  never  have  been, 

Golden  sleeves  for  the  king's  daughter. 

By  there  comes  the  king's  young  son, 
A  little  wind  in  the  mill-water; 

"Out  of  ten  maidens  ye '11  grant  me  one," 
A  crown  of  red  for  the  king's  daughter. 

"Out  of  ten  mays  ye '11  give  me  the  best," 
A  little  rain  in  the  mill-water; 

A  bed  of  yellow  straw  for  all  the  rest, 
A  bed  of  gold  for  the  king's  daughter. 

He's  ta'en  out  the  goodliest, 

Rain  that  rains  in  the  mill-water; 

A  comb  of  yellow  shell  for  all  the  rest, 
A  comb  of  gold  for  the  king's  daughter. 

He's  made  her  bed  to  the  goodliest, 
Wind  and  hail  in  the  mill-water; 

A  grass  girdle  for  all  the  rest, 

A  girdle  of  arms  for  the  king's  daughter. 

He's  set  his  heart  to  the  goodliest, 
Snow  that  snows  in  the  mill-water; 
295 


THE  KING'S  DAUGHTER 

Nine  little  kisses  for  all  the  rest, 

An  hundredfold  for  the  king's  daughter. 

He's  ta'en  his  leave  at  the  goodliest, 

Broken  boats  in  the  mill-water; 
Golden  gifts  for  all  the  rest, 

Sorrow  of  heart  for  the  king's  daughter. 

"Ye'll  make  a  grave  for  my  fair  body," 

Running  rain  in  the  mill-water; 
"And  ye'll  streek  my  brother  at  the  side  of  me," 

The  pains  of  hell  for  the  king's  daughter. 


AFTER   DEATH 

THE  four  boards  of  the  coffin  lid 
Heard  all  the  dead  man  did. 

The  first  curse  was  in  his  mouth, 

Made  of  grave's  mould  and  deadly  drouth. 

The  next  curse  was  in  his  head, 
Made  of  God's  work  discomfited. 

The  next  curse  was  in  his  hands, 
Made  out  of  two  grave-bands. 

The  next  curse  was  in  his  feet, 
Made  out  of  a  grave-sheet. 

"I  had  fair  coins  red  and  white, 
And  my  name  was  as  great  light; 

I  had  fair  clothes  green  and  red, 

And  strong  gold  bound  round  my  head. 

But  no  meat  comes  in  my  mouth, 
Now  I  fare  as  the  worm  doth; 
297 


AFTER  DEATH 

And  no  gold  binds  in  my  hair, 
Now  I  fare  as  the  blind  fare. 

My  live  thews  were  of  great  strength, 
Now  am  I  waxen  a  span's  length; 

My  live  sides  were  full  of  lust, 
Now  are  they  dried  with  dust." 

The  first  board  spake  and  said: 
"Is  it  best  eating  flesh  or  bread?" 

The  second  answered  it: 

"Is  wine  or  honey  the  more  sweet?" 

The  third  board  spake  and  said: 

"Is  red  gold  worth  a  girl's  gold  head?" 

The  fourth  made  answer  thus: 

"All  these  things  are  as  one  with  us." 

The  dead  man  asked  of  them  : 

"Is  the  green  land  stained  brown  with  flame? 

Have  they  hewn  my  son  for  beasts  to  eat, 
And  my  wife's  body  for  beasts'  meat? 

Have  they  boiled  my  maid  in  a  brass  pan, 
And  built  a  gallows  to  hang  my  man?" 

The  boards  said  to  him: 
"This  is  a  lewd  thing  that  ye  deem. 
298 


AFTER  DEATH 

Your  wife  has  gotten  a  golden  bed, 
All  the  sheets  are  sewn  with  red. 

Your  son  has  gotten  a  coat  of  silk, 
The  sleeves  are  soft  as  curded  milk. 

Your  maid  has  gotten  a  kirtle  new, 
All  the  skirt  has  braids  of  blue. 

Your  man  has  gotten  both  ring  and  glove, 
Wrought  well  for  eyes  to  love." 

The  dead  man  answered  thus: 
"What  good  gift  shall  God  give  us?" 

The  boards  answered  him  anon: 
"Flesh  to  feed  hell's  worm  upon." 


MAY  JANET 
(BRETON) 

"STAND  up,  stand  up,  thou  May  Janet, 
And  go  to  the  wars  with  me." 

He's  drawn  her  by  both  hands 
With  her  face  against  the  sea. 

"He  that  strews  red  shall  gather  white, 

He  that  sows  white  reap  red, 
Before  your  face  and  my  daughter's 

Meet  in  a  marriage-bed. 

"Gold,  coin  shall  grow  in  the  yellow  field, 
Green  corn  in  the  green  sea-water, 

And  red  fruit  grow  of  the  rose's  red, 
Ere  your  fruit  grow  in  her." 

"But  I  shall  have  her  by  land,"  he  said, 

"Or  I  shall  have  her  by  sea, 
Or  I  shall  have  her  by  strong  treason 

And  no  grace  go  with  me." 

Her  father's  drawn  her  by  both  hands, 

He's  rent  her  gown  from  her, 
He's  ta'en  the  smock  round  her  body, 

Cast  in  the  sea-water. 
300 


MAY  JANET 

The  captain's  drawn  her  by  both  sides 

Out  of  the  fair  green  sea; 
"Stand  up,  stand  up,  thou  May  Janet, 

And  come  to  the  war  with  me." 

The  first  town  they  came  to 

There  was  a  blue  bride-chamber; 

He  clothed  her  on  with  silk 
And  belted  her  with  amber. 

The  second  town  they  came  to 

The  bridesmen  feasted  knee  to  knee; 

He  clothed  her  on  with  silver, 
A  stately  thing  to  see. 

The  third  town  they  came  to 

The  bridesmaids  all  had  gowns  of  gold; 
He  clothed  her  on  with  purple, 

A  rich  thing  to  behold. 

The  last  town  they  came  to 
He  clothed  her  white  and  red, 

With  a  green  flag  either  side  of  her 
And  a  gold  flag  overhead. 


THE   BLOODY  SON 
(FINNISH) 

"O  WHERE  have  ye  been  the  morn  sae  late, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither  ? 

O  where  have  ye  been  the  morn  sae  late  ? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"By  the  water-gate,  by  the  water-gate, 
O  dear  mither." 

"And  whatten  kin'  o'  wark  had  ye  there  to  make, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  whatten  kin'  o'  wark  had  ye  there  to  make? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"I  watered  my  steeds  with  water  frae  the  lake, 
O  dear  mither." 

"Why  is  your  coat  sae  fouled  the  day, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 
Why  is  your  coat  sae  fouled  the  day  ? 

And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 
"The  steeds  were  stamping  sair  by  the  weary  banks 

of  clay, 
O  dear  mither." 

302 


THE  BLOODY  SON 

"And  where  gat  ye  thae  sleeves  of  red, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  where  gat  ye  thae  sleeves  of  red  ? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"I  have  slain  my  ae  blither  by  the  weary  water- 
head, 
O  dear  mither." 


"And  where  will  ye  gang  to  mak  your  mend, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  where  will  ye  gang  to  mak  your  mend? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"The  warldis  way,  to  the  warldis  end, 
O  dear  mither  " 


"And  what  will  ye  leave  your  father  dear, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  what  will  ye  leave  your  father  dear? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"The  wood  to  fell  and  the  logs  to  bear, 

For  he'll  never  see  my  body  mair, 
O  dear  mither." 


"And  what  will  ye  leave  your  mither  dear, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  what  will  ye  leave  your  mither  dear? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"The  wool  to  card  and  the  wool  to  wear, 

For  ye'll  never  see  my  body  mair, 
O  dear  mither." 

3°3 


THE  BLOODY  SON 

"And  what  will  ye  leave  for  your  wife  to  take, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  what  will  ye  leave  for  your  wife  to  take? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"A  goodly  gown  and  a  fair  new  make, 

For  she'll  do  nae  mair  for  my  body's  sake, 
O  dear  mither." 


"And  what  will  ye  leave  your  young  son  fair, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  what  will  ye  leave  your  young  son  fair? 
And  I  wot  ye  hae  not  anither." 

"A  twiggen  school-rod  for  his  body  to  bear, 

Though  it  garred  him  greet  he'll  get  nae  mair, 
O  dear  mither." 


"And  what  will  ye  leave  your  little  daughter  sweet, 

My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 
And  what  will  ye  leave  your  little  daughter  sweet? 

And  I  wot  ye  hae  not  anither." 
"Wild  mulberries  for  her  mouth  to  eat, 
She'll  get  nae  mair  though  it  garred  her  greet, 

O  dear  mither." 


"And  when  will  ye  come  back  frae  roamin', 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

And  when  will  ye  come  back  frae  roamin'  ? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"When  the  sunrise  out  of  the  north  is  comen, 
O  dear  mither." 

3°4 


THE  BLOODY  SON 

"When  shall  the  sunrise  on  the  north  side  be, 

My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 
When  shall  the  sunrise  on  the  north  side  be? 

And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 
"When  chuckie-stanes  shall  swim  in  the  sea, 

O  dear  mither." 

"When  shall  stanes  in  the  sea  swim, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

When  shall  stanes  in  the  sea  swim  ? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"When  birdies'  feathers  are  as  lead  therein, 
O  dear  mither." 

"When  shall  feathers  be  as  lead, 
My  merry  son,  come  tell  me  hither? 

When  shall  feathers  be  as  lead? 
And  I  wot  I  hae  not  anither." 

"  When  God  shall  judge  between  the  quick  and  dead, 
O  dear  mither." 


THE   SEA-SWALLOWS 

THIS  fell  when  Christmas  lights  were  done, 
(Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine), 

But  before  the  Easter  lights  begun; 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne. 

Two  lovers  sat  where  the  rowan  blows 
And  all  the  grass  is  heavy  and  fine, 

By  the  gathering-place  of  the  sea-swallows 
When  the  wind  brings  them  over  Tyne. 

Blossom  of  broom  will  never  make  bread, 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine; 

Between  her  brows  she  is  grown  red, 
That  was  full  white  in  the  fields  by  Tyne. 

"O  what  is  this  thing  ye  have  on, 

Show  me  now,  sweet  daughter  of  mine?" 
"O  father,  this  is  my  little  son 

That  I  found  hid  in  the  sides  of  Tyne. 

"O  what  will  ye  give  my  son  to  eat, 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine?" 

4 'Fen- water  and  adder's  meat, 

The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne.' 
306 


THE  SEA-SWALLOWS 

"Or  what  will  ye  get  my  son  to  wear?" 
(Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine.) 

"A  weed  and  a  web  of  nettle's  hair, 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne." 

"Or  what  will  ye  take  to  line  his  bed?" 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine. 

"Two  black  stones  at  the  kirkwall's  head." 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne. 

"Or  what  will  ye  give  my  son  for  land?" 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine. 

"Three  girl's  paces  of  red  sand. 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne." 

"Or  what  will  ye  give  me  for  my  son?" 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine. 

"Six  times  to  kiss  his  young  mouth  on." 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne. 

"  But  what  have  ye  done  with  the  bearing-bread, 
And  what  have  ye  made  of  the  washing- wine  ? 

Or  where  have  ye  made  your  bearing-bed, 
To  bear  a  son  in  the  sides  of  Tyne?" 

"The  bearing-bread  is  soft  and  new, 
There  is  no  soil  in  the  straining  wine; 

The  bed  was  made  between  green  and  blue, 
It  stands  full  soft  by  the  sides  of  Tyne. 

"The  fair  grass  was  my  bearing-bread, 
The  well-water  my  washing- wine ; 
307 


THE  SEA-SWALLOWS 

The  low  leaves  were  my  bearing-bed, 

And  that  was  best  in  the  sides  of  Tyne." 

"O  daughter,  if  ye  have  done  this  thing, 

I  wot  the  greater  grief  is  mine; 
This  was  a  bitter  child-bearing, 

When  ye  were  got  by  the  sides  of  Tyne. 

"About  the  time  of  sea-swallows 
That  fly  full  thick  by  six  and  nine, 

Ye '11  have  my  body  out  of  the  house, 
To  bury  me  by  the  sides  of  Tyne. 

"Set  nine  stones  by  the  wall  for  twain, 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine; 

For  the  bed  I  take  will  measure  ten, 
The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne. 

"Tread  twelve  girl's  paces  out  for  three, 
Red  rose  leaves  will  never  make  wine; 

For  the  pit  I  made  has  taken  me, 

The  ways  are  sair  fra'  the  Till  to  the  Tyne." 


THE  YEAR  OF  LOVE 

THERE  were  four  loves  that  one  by  one, 
Following  the  seasons  and  the  sun, 
Passed  over  without  tears,  and  fell 
Away  without  farewell. 

The  first  was  made  of  gold  and  tears, 
The  next  of  aspen-leaves  and  fears, 
The  third  of  rose-boughs  and  rose-roots, 
The  last  love  of  strange  fruits. 

These  were  the  four  loves  faded.     Hold 
Some  minutes  fast  the  time  of  gold 
When  our  lips  each  way  clung  and  clove 
To  a  face  full  of  love. 

The  tears  inside  our  eyelids  met, 
Wrung  forth  with  kissing,  and  wept  wet 
The  faces  cleaving  each  to  each 
Where  the  blood  served  for  speech. 

The  second,  with  low  patient  brows 
Bound  under  aspen-coloured  boughs 
And  eyes  made  strong  and  grave  with  sleep 
And  yet  too  weak  to  weep— 

1OQ 


309 


THE  YEAR  OF  LOVE 

The  third,  with  eager  mouth  at  ease 
Fed  from  late  autumn  honey,  lees 
Of  scarce  gold  left  in  latter  cells 
With  scattered  flower-smells — 

Hair  sprinkled  over  with  spoilt  sweet 
Of  ruined  roses,  wrists  and  feet 
Slight-swathed,  as  grassy-girdled  sheaves 
Hold  in  stray  poppy-leaves — 

The  fourth,  with  lips  whereon  has  bled 
Some  great  pale  fruit's  slow  colour,  shed 
From  the  rank  bitter  husk  whence  drips 
Faint  blood  between  her  lips — 

Made  of  the  heat  of  whole  great  Junes 
Burning  the  blue  dark  round  their  moons 
(Each  like  a  mown  red  marigold) 
So  hard  the  flame  keeps  hold — 

These  are  burnt  thoroughly  away. 
Only  the  first  holds  out  a  day 
Beyond  these  latter  loves  that  were 
Made  of  mere  heat  and  air. 

And  now  the  time  is  winterly 
The  first  love  fades  too:  none  will  see, 
When  April  warms  the  world  anew, 
The  place  wherein  love  grew. 


DEDICATION 

1865 

THE  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle, 

The  earth  gives  her  streams  to  the  sea; 
They  are  many,  but  my  gift  is  single, 

My  verses,  the  firstfruits  of  me. 
Let  the  wind  take  the  green  and  the  grey  leaf, 

Cast  forth  without  fruit  upon  air; 
Take  rose-leaf  and  vine-leaf  and  bay-leaf 

Blown  loose  from  the  hair. 

The  night  shakes  them  round  me  in  legions, 

Dawn  drives  them  before  her  like  dreams; 
Time  sheds  them  like  snows  on  strange  regions, 

Swept  shoreward  on  infinite  streams; 
Leaves  pallid  and  sombre  and  ruddy, 

Dead  fruits  of  the  fugitive  years; 
Some  stained  as  with  wine  and  made  bloody, 

And  some  as  with  tears. 

Some  scattered  in  seven  years'  traces, 
As  they  fell  from  the  boy  that  was  then; 

Long  left  among  idle  green  places, 
Or  gathered  but  now  among  men; 

On  seas  full  of  wonder  and  peril, 

Blown  white  round  the  capes  of  the  north; 


DEDICATION 

Or  in  islands  where  myrtles  are  sterile 
And  loves  bring  not  forth. 

O  daughters  of  dreams  and  of  stories 

That  life  is  not  wearied  of  yet, 
Faustine,  Fragoletta,  Dolores, 

Felise  and  Yolande  and  Juliette, 
Shall  I  find  you  not  still,  shall  I  miss  you, 

When  sleep,  that  is  true  or  that  seems, 
Comes  back  to  me  hopeless  to  kiss  you, 

O  daughters  of  dreams? 

They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes, 

As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time; 
More  frail  than  the  shadows  on  glasses, 

More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme. 
As  the  waves  after  ebb  drawing  seaward, 

When  their  hollows  are  full  of  the  night, 
So  the  birds  that  flew  singing  to  me-ward 

Recede  out  of  sight. 

The  songs  of  dead  seasons,  that  wander 

On  wings  of  articulate  words; 
Lost  leaves  that  the  shore-wind  may  squander, 

Light  flocks  of  untameable  birds; 
Some  sang  to  me  dreaming  in  class-time 

And  truant  in  hand  as  in  tongue; 
For  the  youngest  were  born  of  boy's  pastime, 

The  eldest  are  young. 

Is  there  shelter  while  life  in  them  lingers, 
Is  there  hearing  for  songs  that  recede, 
312 


DEDICATION 

Tunes  touched  from  a  harp  with  man's  fingers 
Or  blown  with  boy's  mouth  in  a  reed? 

Is  there  place  in  the  land  of  your  labour, 
Is  there  room  in  your  world  of  delight, 

Where  change  has  not  sorrow  for  neighbour 
And  day  has  not  night? 

In  their  wings  though  the  sea-wind  yet  quivers, 

Will  you  spare  not  a  space  for  them  there 
Made  green  with  the  running  of  rivers 

And  gracious  with  temperate  air; 
In  the  fields  and  the  turreted  cities, 

That  cover  from  sunshine  and  rain 
Fair  passions  and  bountiful  pities 

'And  loves  without  stain? 

In  a  land  of  clear  colours  and  stories, 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours, 
Where  earth  has  a  garment  of  glories 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers; 
In  woods  where  the  spring  half  uncovers 

The  flush  of  her  amorous  face, 
By  the  waters  that  listen  for  lovers, 

For  these  is  there  place  ? 

For  the  song-birds  of  sorrow,  that  muffle 
Their  music  as  clouds  do  their  fire: 

For  the  storm-birds  of  passion,  that  ruffle 
Wild  wings  in  a  wind  of  desire; 

In  the  stream  of  the  storm  as  it  settles 
Blown  seaward,  borne  far  from  the  sun, 


DEDICATION 

Shaken  loose  on  the  darkness  like  petals 
Dropt  one  after  one? 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands  be  more  gracious 

And  lovelier  in  lordship  of  things 
Clothed  round  by  sweet  art  with  the  spacious 

Warm  heaven  of  her  imminent  wings, 
Let  them  enter,  unfledged  and  nigh  fainting, 

For  the  love  of  old  loves  and  lost  times; 
And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 

This  revel  of  rhymes. 

Though  the  seasons  of  man  full  of  losses 

Make  empty  the  years  full  of  youth, 
If  but  one  thing  be  constant  in  crosses, 

Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth; 
Hopes  die,  and  their  tombs  are  for  token 

That  the  grief  as  the  joy  of  them  ends 
Ere  time  that  breaks  all  men  has  broken 

The  faith  between  friends. 

Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 

There  is  help  if  the  heaven  has  one; 
Though  the  skies  be  discrowned  of  the  sunlight 

And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun, 
They  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  repayment, 

When,  refreshed  as  a  bride  and  set  free, 
With  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 

Night  sinks  on  the  sea. 


COR  CORDIUM 


0  HEART  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire, 
Hid  round  with  flowers  and  all  the  bounty  of 

bloom ; 

O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 
The  lyrist  liberty  made  life  a  lyre; 
0  heavenly  heart,  at  whose  most  dear  desire 
Dead  love,  living  and  singing,  cleft  his  tomb, 
And  with  him  risen  and  regent  in  death's  room 
All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  choir; 
0  heart  whose  beating  blood  was  running  song, 
O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own  songs  were. 

Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be  free, 
True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy  strength's  sake 

strong, 

Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 
The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 

»3 


SESTINA 


I  SAW  my  soul  at  rest  upon  a  day 

As  a  bird  sleeping  in  the  nest  of  night, 

Among  soft  leaves  that  give  the  starlight  way 
To  touch  its  wings  but  not  its  eyes  with  light; 

So  that  it  knew  as  one  in  visions  may, 
And  knew  not  as  men  waking,  of  delight. 

This  was  the  measure  of  my  soul's  delight; 

It  had  no  power  of  joy  to  fly  by  day, 
Nor  part  in  the  large  lordship  of  the  light; 

But  in  a  secret  moon-beholden  way 
Had  all  its  will  of  dreams  and  pleasant  night, 

And  all  the  love  and  life  that  sleepers  may. 

But  such  life's  triumph  as  men  waking  may 
It  might  not  have  to  feed  its  faint  delight 

Between  the  stars  by  night  and  sun  by  day, 
Shut  up  with  green  leaves  and  a  little  light; 

Because  its  way  was  as  a  lost  star's  way, 
A  world's  not  wholly  known  of  day  or  night. 

All  loves  and  dreams  and  sounds  and  gleams  of  night 
Made  it  all  music  that  such  minstrels  may, 
316 


SESTINA 

And  all  they  had  they  gave  it  of  delight; 

But  in  the  full  face  of  the  fire  of  day 
What  place  shall  be  for  any  starry  light, 

What  part  of  heaven  in  all  the  wide  sun's  way  ? 

Yet  the  soul  woke  not,  sleeping  by  the  way, 
Watched  as  a  nursling  of  the  large-eyed  night, 

And  sought  no  strength  nor  knowledge  of  the  day, 
Nor  closer  touch  conclusive  of  delight, 

Nor  mightier  joy  nor  truer  than  dreamers  may, 
Nor  more  of  song  than  they,  nor  more  of  light. 

For  who  sleeps  once  and  sees  the  secret  light 
Whereby  sleep  shows  the  soul  a  fairer  way 

Between  the  rise  and  rest  of  day  and  night, 
Shall  care  no  more  to  fare  as  all  men  may, 

But  be  his  place  of  pain  or  of  delight, 
There  shall  he  dwell,  beholding  night  as  day. 

Song,  have  thy  day  and  take  thy  fill  of  light 
Before  the  night  be  fallen  across  thy  way; 
Sing  while  he  may,  man  hath  no  long  delight. 


SONG 


LOVE  laid  his  sleepless  head 
On  a  thorny  rosy  bed; 
And  his  eyes  with  tears  were  red, 
And  pale  his  lips  as  the  dead. 

And  fear  and  sorrow  and  scorn 
Kept  watch  by  his  head  forlorn, 
Till  the  night  was  overworn 
And  the  world  was  merry  with  morn. 

And  Joy  came  up  with  the  day 
And  kissed  Love's  lips  as  he  lay, 
And  the  watchers  ghostly  and  grey 
Sped  from  his  pillow  away. 

And  his  eyes  as  the  dawn  grew  bright, 
And  his  lips  waxed  ruddy  as  light: 
Sorrow  may  reign  for  a  night, 
But  day  shall  bring  back  delight. 


CHILD'S  SONG 


WHAT  is  gold  worth,  say, 
Worth  for  work  or  play, 
Worth  to  keep  or  pay, 
Hide  or  throw  away, 

Hope  about  or  fear? 
What  is  love  worth,  pray  ? 

Worth  a  tear? 

Golden  on  the  mould 
Lie  the  dead  leaves  rolled 
Of  the  wet  woods  old, 
Yellow  leaves  and  cold, 

Woods  without  a  dove; 
Gold  is  worth  but  gold; 

Love's  worth  love. 


CRADLE  SONGS 
(TO  A  TUNE  OF  BLAKE'S) 


BABY,  baby  bright, 
Sleep  can  steal  from  sight 
Little  of  your  light: 

Soft  as  fire  in  dew, 
Still  the  life  in  you 
Lights  your  slumber  through. 

Four  white  eyelids  keep 
Fast  the  seal  of  sleep 
Deep  as  love  is  deep: 

Yet,  though  closed  it  lies, 
Love  behind  them  spies 
Heaven  in  two  blue  eyes. 


ii 

Baby,  baby  dear, 
Earth  and  heaven  are  near 
Now,  for  heaven  is  here. 
320 


CRADLE    SONGS 

Heaven  is  every  place 
Where  your  flower-sweet  face 
Fills  our  eyes  with  grace. 

Till  your  own  eyes  deign 
Earth  a  glance  again, 
Earth  and  heaven  are  twain. 


Now  your  sleep  is  done, 
Shine,  and  show  the  sun 
Earth  and  heaven  are  one. 


in 

Baby,  baby  sweet, 
Love's  own  lips  are  meet 
Scarce  to  kiss  your  feet. 

Hardly  love's  own  ear, 
When  your  laugh  crows  clear, 
Quite  deserves  to  hear. 

Hardly  love's  own  wile, 
Though  it  please  awhile, 
Quite  deserves  your  smile. 

Baby  full  of  grace, 
Bless  us  yet  a  space: 
Sleep  will  come  apace. 
321 


CRADLE    SONGS 

IV 

Baby,  baby  true, 
Man,  whate'er  he  do, 
May  deceive  not  you. 

Smiles  whose  love  is  guile, 
Worn  a  flattering  while, 
Win  from  you  no  smile. 

One,  the  smile  alone 

Out  of  love's  heart  grown, 

Ever  wins  your  own. 

Man,  a  dunce  uncouth, 
Errs  in  age  and  youth: 
Babies  know  the  truth. 


Baby,  baby  fair, 
Love  is  fain  to  dare 
Bless  your  haughtiest  air 

Baby  blithe  and  bland, 
Reach  but  forth  a  hand 
None  may  dare  withstand, 

Love,  though  wellnigh  cowed, 
Yet  would  praise  aloud 
Pride  so  sweetly  proud. 
322 


CRADLE    SONGS 

No!  the  fitting  word 
Even  from  breeze  or  bird 
Never  yet  was  heard. 


VI 

Baby,  baby  kind, 
Though  no  word  we  find, 
Bear  us  yet  in  mind. 

Half  a  little  hour, 
Baby  bright  in  bower, 
Keep  this  thought  aflower- 

Love  it  is,  I  see, 

Here  with  heart  and  knee 

Bows  and  worships  me. 

What  can  baby  do, 
Then,  for  love  so  true? — 
Let  it  worship  you. 


VII 

Baby,  baby  wise, 
Love's  divine  surmise 
Lights  your  constant  eyes. 

Day  and  night  and  day 
One  mute  word  would  they, 
As  the  soul  saith,  say. 
323 


CRADLE    SONGS 

Trouble  comes  and  goes; 
Wonder  ebbs  and  flows; 
Love  remains  and  glows. 

As  the  fledgeling  dove 
Feels  the  breast  above, 
So  your  heart  feels  love. 


THREE   WEEKS  OLD 


THREE  weeks  since  there  was  no  such  rose  in  being; 

Now  may  eyes  made  dim  with  deep  delight 
See  how  fair  it  is,  laugh  with  love,  and  seeing 

Praise  the  chance  that  bids  us  bless  the  sight. 

Three  weeks  old,  and  a  very  rose  of  roses, 
Bright  and  sweet  as  love  is  sweet  and  bright. 

Heaven  and  earth,  till  a  man's  life  wanes  and  closes, 
Show  not  life  or  love  a  lovelier  sight. 

Three   weeks   past   have   renewed   the   rosebright 
creature 

Day  by  day  with  life,  and  night  by  night. 
Love,  though  fain  of  its  every  faultless  feature, 

Finds  not  words  to  match  the  silent  sight. 


NELL  GWYN 


SWBBT  heart,  that  no  taint  of  the  throne  or  the  stage 
Could  touch  with  unclean  transformation,  or  alter 
To  the  likeness  of  courtiers  whose  consciences 
falter 

At  the  smile  or  the  frown,  at  the  mirth  or  the  rage, 

Of  a  master  whom  chance  could  inflame  or  assuage, 
Our  Lady  of  Laughter,  invoked  in  no  psalter, 
Adored  of  no  faithful  that  cringe  and  that  palter, 

Praise  be  with  thee  yet  from  a  hag-ridden  age. 

Our  Lady  of  Pity  thou  wast:  and  to  thee 
All  England,  whose  sons  are  the  sons  of  the  sea, 

Gives  thanks,  and  will  hear  not  if  history  snarls 
When  the  name  of  the  friend  of  her  sailors  is  spoken ; 
And  thy  lover  she  cannot  but  love — by  the  token 

That  thy  name  was  the  last  on  the  lips  of  King 
Charles. 


LOVE  AND  SCORN 


LOVE,  loyallest  and  lordliest  born  of  things, 
Immortal  that  shouldst  be,  though  all  else  end, 
In  plighted  hearts  of  fearless  friend  with  friend, 

Whose  hand  may  curb  or  clip  thy  plume-plucked 


wings 


Not  grief's  nor  time's:  though  these  be  lords  and 

kings 

Crowned,  and  their  yoke  bid  vassal  passions  bend, 
They  may  not  pierce  the  spirit  of  sense,  or  blend 

Quick  poison  with  the  soul's  live  watersprings. 

The  true  clear  heart  whose  core  is  manful  trust 

Fears  not  that  very  death  may  turn  to  dust 
Love  lit  therein  as  toward  a  brother  born, 

If  one  touch  make  not  all  its  fine  gold  rust, 
If  one  breath  blight  not  all  its  glad  ripe  corn, 
And  all  its  fire  be  turned  to  fire  of  scorn. 


ii 

Scorn  only,  scorn  begot  of  bitter  proof 
By  keen  experience  of  a  trustless  heart, 
Bears  burning  in  her  new-born  hand  the  dart 

Wherewith  love  dies  heart-stricken,  and  the  roof 

327 


LOVE    AND    SCORN 

Falls  of  his  palace,  and  the  storied  woof 

Long  woven  of  many  a  year  with  life's  whole  art 

Is  rent  like  any  rotten  weed  apart, 
And  hardly  with  reluctant  eyes  aloof 
Cold  memory  guards  one  relic  scarce  exempt 
Yet  from  the  fierce  corrosion  of  contempt, 

And  hardly  saved  by  pity.     Woe  are  we 
That  once  we  loved,  and  love  not;  but  we  know 
The  ghost  of  love,  surviving  yet  in  show, 

Where  scorn  has  passed,  is  vain  as  grief  must  be. 

in 

O  sacred,  just,  inevitable  scorn, 

Strong  child  of  righteous  judgment,  whom  with 
grief 

The  rent  heart  bears,  and  wins  not  yet  relief, 
Seeing  of  its  pain  so  dire  a  portent  born, 
Must  thou  not  spare  one  sheaf  of  all  the  corn, 

One  doit  of  all  the  treasure?  not  one  sheaf, 

Not  one  poor  doit  of  all  ?  not  one  dead  leaf 
Of  all  that  fell  and  left  behind  a  thorn  ? 
Is  man  so  strong  that  one  should  scorn  another? 
Is  any  as  God,  not  made  of  mortal  mother, 

That  love  should  turn  in  him  to  gall  and  flame  ? 
Nay:  but  the  true  is  not  the  false  heart's  brother: 

Love  cannot  love  disloyalty:  the  name 

That  else  it  wears  is  love  no  more,  but  shame. 


CLEAR  THE  WAY! 


CLEAR  the  way,  my  lords  and  lackeys!  you  have  had 

your  day. 
Here  you  have  your  answer — England's  yea  against 

your  nay: 
Long  enough  your  house  has  held  you:  up,  and  clear 

the  way! 

Lust  and  falsehood,  craft  and  traffic,  precedent  and 

gold, 
Tongue  of  courtier,  kiss  of  harlot,  promise  bought 

and  sold, 
Gave  you  heritage  of  empire  over  thralls  of  old. 

Now  that  all  these  things  are  rotten,  all  their  gold  is 

rust, 
Quenched  the  pride  they  lived  by,  dead  the  faith  and 

cold  the  lust, 
Shall  their  heritage  not  also  turn  again  to  dust? 

By  the  grace  of  these  they  reigned,  who  left  their  sons 

their  sway: 
By  the  grace  of  these,  what  England  says  her  lords 

unsay : 
Till  at  last  her  cry  go  forth  against  them — Clear  the 

way! 

329 


CLEAR    THE    WAY! 

By  the  grace  of  trust  in  treason  knaves  have  lived 

and  lied: 
By  the  force  of  fear  and  folly  fools  have  fed  their 

pride: 
By  the  strength  of  sloth  and  custom  reason  stands 

defied. 

Lest  perchance  your  reckoning  on  some  latter  day  be 

worse, 
Halt  and  hearken,  lords  of  land  and  princes  of  the 

purse, 
Ere  the  tide  be  full  that  comes  with  blessing  and  with 

curse. 

Where  we  stand,  as  where  you  sit,  scarce  falls  a 

sprinkling  spray; 
But  the  wind  that  swells,  the  wave  that  follows,  none 

shall  stay: 
Spread  no  more  of  sail  for  shipwreck :  out,  and  clear 

the  way! 


TO  A  CAT 


STATELY,  kindly,  lordly  friend, 

Condescend 

Here  to  sit  by  me,  and  turn 
Glorious  eyes  that  smile  and  burn, 
Golden  eyes,  love's  lustrous  meed, 
On  the  golden  page  I  read. 

All  your  wondrous  wealth  of  hair, 

Dark  and  fair, 

Silken-shaggy,  soft  and  bright 
As  the  clouds  and  beams  of  night, 
Pays  my  reverent  hand's  caress 
Back  with  friendlier  gentleness. 

Dogs  may  fawn  on  all  and  some 

As  they  come; 

You,  a  friend  of  loftier  mind, 
Answer  friends  alone  in  kind. 
Just  your  foot  upon  my  hand 
Softly  bids  it  understand. 


TO    A    CAT 

Morning  round  this  silent  sweet 

Garden-seat 

Sheds  its  wealth  of  gathering  light, 
Thrills  the  gradual  clouds  with  might, 
Changes  woodland,  orchard,  heath, 
Lawn,  and  garden  there  beneath. 

Fair  and  dim  they  gleamed  below: 

Now  they  glow 

Deep  as  even  your  sunbright  eyes, 
Fair  as  even  the  wakening  skies. 
Can  it  not  or  can  it  be 
Now  that  you  give  thanks  to  see? 

May  not  you  rejoice  as  I, 

Seeing  the  sky 

Change  to  heaven  revealed,  and  bid 
Earth  reveal  the  heaven  it  hid 
All  night  long  from  stars  and  moon, 
Now  the  sun  sets  all  in  tune? 

What  within  you  wakes  with  day 

Who  can  say  ? 
All  too  little  may  we  tell, 
Friends  who  like  each  other  well, 
What  might  haply,  if  we  might, 
Bid  us  read  our  lives  aright. 

ii 

Wild  on  woodland  ways  your  sires 
Flashed  like  fires; 
332 


TO    A    CAT 

Fair  as  flame  and  fierce  and  fleet 
As  with  wings  on  wingless  feet 
Shone  and  sprang  your  mother,  free, 
Bright  and  brave  as  wind  or  sea. 

Free  and  proud  and  glad  as  they, 

Here  to-day 

Rests  or  roams  their  radiant  child, 
Vanquished  not,  but  reconciled, 
Free  from  curb  of  aught  above 
Save  the  lovely  curb  of  love. 

Love  through  dreams  of  souls  divine 

Fain  would  shine 

Round  a  dawn  whose  light  and  song 
Then  should  right  our  mutual  wrong- 
Speak,  and  seal  the  love-lit  law 
Sweet  Assisi's  seer  foresaw. 

Dreams  were  theirs;  yet  haply  may 

Dawn  a  day 

When  such  friends  and  fellows  born, 
Seeing  our  earth  as  fair  at  morn, 
May  for  wiser  love's  sake  see 
More  of  heaven's  deep  heart  than  we. 


AN  OLD  SAYING 


MANY  waters  cannot  quench  love, 
Neither  can  the  floods  drown  it. 

Who  shall  snare  or  slay  the  white  dove 
Faith,  whose  very  dreams  crown  it, 

Gird  it  round  with  grace  and  peace,  deep, 

Warm,  and  pure,  and  soft  as  sweet  sleep? 

Many  waters  cannot  quench  love, 
Neither  can  the  floods  drown  it. 

Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  heart, 

As  a  seal  upon  thine  arm. 
How  should  we  behold  the  days  depart 

And  the  nights  resign  their  charm? 
Love  is  as  the  soul:  though  hate  and  fear 
Waste  and  overthrow,  they  strike  not  here. 
Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  heart, 

As  a  seal  upon  thine  arm. 


A  CHANNEL   PASSAGE 


FORTH  from  Calais,  at  dawn  of  night,  when  sunset 

summer  on  autumn  shone, 
Fared  the  steamer  alert   and   loud  through   seas 

whence  only  the  sun  was  gone: 
Soft  and  sweet  as  the  sky  they  smiled,  and  bade 

man  welcome:  a  dim  sweet  hour 
Gleamed  and  whispered  in  wind  and  sea,  and  heaven 

was  fair  as  a  field  in  flower. 
Stars  fulfilled  the  desire  of  the  darkling  world  as 

with  music:  the  starbright  air 
Made  the  face  of  the  sea,  if  aught  may  make  the 

face  of  the  sea,  more  fair. 

Whence  came  change  ?     Was  the  sweet  night  weary 

of  rest  ?     What  anguish  awoke  in  the  dark  ? 
Sudden,  sublime,  the  strong  storm  spake:  we  heard 

the  thunders  as  hounds  that  bark. 
Lovelier  if  aught  may  be  lovelier  than  stars,  we  saw 

the  lightnings  exalt  the  sky, 
Living  and  lustrous  and  rapturous  as  love  that  is 

born  but  to  quicken  and  lighten  and  die. 

335 


A    CHANNEL    PASSAGE 

Heaven's  own  heart  at  its  highest  of  delight  found 
utterance  in  music  and  semblance  in  fire: 

Thunder  on  thunder  exulted,  rejoicing  to  live  and 
to  satiate  the  night's  desire. 

And  the  night  was  alive  and  anhungered  of  life  as  a 

tiger  from  toils  cast  free : 
And  a  rapture  of  rage  made  joyous  the  spirit  and 

strength  of  the  soul  of  the  sea. 
All  the  weight  of  the  wind  bore  down  on  it,  freighted 

with  death  for  fraught: 
And   the  keen   waves   kindled   and   quickened   as 

things  transfigured  or  things  distraught. 
And  madness  fell  on  them  laughing  and  leaping; 

and  madness  came  on  the  wind: 
And  the  might  and  the  light  and  the  darkness  of 

storm  were  as  storm  in  the  heart  of  Ind. 
Such  glory,  such  terror,  such  passion,  as  lighten 

and  harrow  the  far  fierce  East, 
Rang,  shone,  spake,  shuddered  around  us :  the  night 

was  an  altar  with  death  for  priest. 
The  channel  that  sunders  England  from  shores  where 

never  was  man  born  free 
Was  clothed  with  the  likeness  and  thrilled  with  the 

strength  and  the  wrath  of  a  tropic  sea. 
As  a  wild  steed  ramps  in  rebellion,  and  rears  till  it 

swerves  from  a  backward  fall, 
The  strong  ship  struggled  and  reared,  and  her  deck 

was  upright  as  a  sheer  cliff's  wall. 
Stern  and  prow  plunged  under,  alternate:  a  glimpse, 

a  recoil,  a  breath, 
And  she  sprang  as  the  life  in  a  god  made  man 

would  spring  at  the  throat  of  death. 
336 


A    CHANNEL    PASSAGE 

Three  glad  hours,  and  it  seemed  not  an  hour  of 

supreme  and  supernal  joy, 
Filled  full  with  delight  that  revives  in  remembrance 

a  sea-bird's  heart  in  a  boy. 
For  the  central  crest  of  the  night  was  cloud  that 

thundered  and  flamed,  sublime 
As  the  splendour  and  song  of  the  soul  everlasting 

that  quickens  the  pulse  of  time. 
The  glory  beholden  of  man  in  a  vision,  the  music  of 

light  overheard, 
The  rapture  and  radiance  of  battle,  the  life  that 

abides  in  the  fire  of  a  word, 
In  the  midmost   heaven   enkindled,  was  manifest 

far  on  the  face  of  the  sea, 
And  the  rage  in  the  roar  of  the  voice  of  the  waters 

was  heard  but  when  heaven  breathed  free. 
Far  eastward,  clear  of  the  covering  of  cloud,  the 

sky  laughed  out  into  light 
From  the  rims  of  the  storm  to  the  sea's  dark  edge 

with  flames  that  were  flowerlike  and  white. 
The  leaping  and  luminous  blossoms  of  live  sheet 

lightning  that  laugh  as  they  fade 
From  the  cloud's  black  base  to  the  black  wave's 

brim  rejoiced  in  the  light  they  made. 
Far  westward,  throned  in  a  silent  sky,  where  life  was 

in  lustrous  tune, 
Shone,  sweeter  and  surer  than  morning  or  evening, 

the  steadfast  smile  of  the  moon. 
The  limitless  heaven  that  enshrined  them  was  love- 
lier than  dreams  may  behold,  and  deep 
As  life  or  as  death,  revealed  and  transfigured,  may 

shine  on  the  soul  through  sleep. 
337 


A    CHANNEL    PASSAGE 

All  glories  of  toil  and  of  triumph  and  passion  and 

pride  that  it  yearns  to  know 
Bore  witness  there  to  the  soul  of  its  likeness  and 

kinship,  above  and  below. 
The  joys  of  the  lightnings,  the  songs  of  the  thunders, 

the  strong  sea's  labour  and  rage, 
Were  tokens  and  signs  of  the  war  that  is  life  and  is 

joy  for  the  soul  to  wage. 
No  thought  strikes  deeper  or  higher  than  the  heights 

and  the  depths  that  the  night  made  bare, 
Illimitable,  infinite,  awful  and  joyful,  alive  in  the 

summit  of  air — 

Air  stilled  and  thrilled  by  the  tempest  that  thun- 
dered between  its  reign  and  the  sea's, 
Rebellious,  rapturous,  and  transient  as  faith  or  as 

terror  that  bows  men's  knees. 
No  love  sees  loftier  and  fairer  the  form  of  its  god- 
like vision  in  dreams 
Than  the  world  shone  then ,  when  the  sky  and  the 

sea  were  as  love  for  a  breath's  length  seems — 
One  utterly,  mingled  and  mastering  and  mastered 

and  laughing  with  love  that  subsides 
As  the  glad  mad  night  sank  panting  and  satiate 

with  storm,  and  released  the  tides. 
In  the  dense  mid  channel  the  steam-souled  ship 

hung  hovering,  assailed  and  withheld 
As  a  soul  born  royal,  if  life  or  if  death  be  against 

it,  is  thwarted  and  quelled. 
As  the  glories  of  myriads  of  glowworms  in  lustrous 

grass  on  a  boundless  lawn 
Were  the  glories  of  flames  phosphoric  that  made  of 

the  water  a  light  like  dawn. 
338 


A    CHANNEL    PASSAGE 

A  thousand  Phosphors,  a  thousand  Hespers,  awoke 

in  the  churning  sea, 
And  the  swift  soft  hiss  of  them  living  and  dying 

was  clear  as  a  tune  could  be; 
As  a  tune  that  is  played  by  the  fingers  of  death  on 

the  keys  of  life  or  of  sleep, 
Audible  alway  alive  in  the  storm,  too  fleet  for  a 

dream  to  keep: 
Too  fleet,  too  sweet  for  a  dream  to  recover  and 

thought  to  remember  awake: 

Light  subtler  and  swifter  than  lightning,  that  whis- 
pers and  laughs  in  the  live  storm's  wake, 
In  the  wild  bright  wake  of  the  storm,  in  the  dense 

loud  heart  of  the  labouring  hour, 
A  harvest  of  stars  by  the  storm's  hand  reaped,  each 

fair  as  a  star-shaped  flower. 
And  sudden  and  soft  as  the  passing  of  sleep  is  the 

passing  of  tempest  seemed 
When  the  light  and  the  sound  of  it  sank,  and  the 

glory  was  gone  as  a  dream  half  dreamed. 
The  glory,  the  terror,  the  passion  that  made  of  the 

midnight  a  miracle,  died, 
Not  slain  at  a  stroke,  nor  in  gradual  reluctance 

abated  of  power  and  of  pride; 
With  strong  swift  subsidence,  awful  as  power  that 

is  wearied  of  power  upon  earth, 
As  a  God  that  were  wearied  of  power  upon  heaven, 

and  were  fain  of  a  new  God's  birth, 
The  might  of  the  night  subsided :  the  tyranny  kin- 
dled in  darkness  fell: 
And  the  sea  and  the  sky  put  off  them  the  rapture 

and  radiance  of  heaven  and  of  hell. 
339 


A   CHANNEL    PASSAGE 

The  waters,  heaving  and  hungering  at  heart,  made 
way,  and  were  wellnigh  fain, 

For  the  ship  that  had  fought  them,  and  wrestled, 
and  revelled  in  labour,  to  cease  from  her  pain. 

A.nd  an  end  was  made  of  it :  only  remembrance  en- 
dures of  the  glad  loud  strife; 

And  the  sense  that  a  rapture  so  royal  may  come 
not  again  in  the  passage  of  life. 


AT  PARTING 

FOR  a  day  and  a  night  Love  sang  to  us,  played  with 

us, 

Folded  us  round  from  the  dark  and  the  light; 
And  our  hearts  were  fulfilled  of  the  music  he  made 

with  us, 
Made  with  our  hearts  and  our  lips  while  he  stayed 

with  us, 

Stayed  in  mid  passage  his  pinions  from  flight 
For  a  day  and  a  night. 

From  his  foes  that  kept  watch  with  his  wings  had  he 

hidden  us, 

Covered  us  close  from  the  eyes  that  would  smite, 
From  the  feet  that  had  tracked  and  the  tongues  that 

had  chidden  us 

Sheltering  in  shade  of  the  myrtles  forbidden  us 
Spirit  and  flesh  growing  one  with  delight 
For  a  day  and  a  night. 

But  his  wings  will  not  rest  and  his  feet  will  not  stay 

for  us: 

Morning  is  here  in  the  joy  of  its  might; 
With  his  breath  has  he  sweetened  a  night  and  a  day 

for  us; 

Now  let  him  pass,  and  the  myrtles  make  way  for  us; 
Love  can  but  last  in  us  here  at  his  height 
For  a  day  and  a  night. 

THE    END 


t  ^-t^^ex  "^ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION 


